#man i just want to make myself some good soap again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceilidho · 11 months ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 6) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

And they say if it sways, you have to cut it off at the root.

You repeat that to yourself when you catch the way you glance out the kitchen window again, surreptitiously watching John. It’s hard to pull your eyes away. He walks over to the well to fetch water for you to do the dishes, the chore you’d elected to take when he offered you the choice between that and feeding the horses. It’s a fair compromise since you balk at the thought of getting anywhere near either of those beasts.

Watching him bend over the well to lower the bucket down, his muscled shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and suspenders drawing tight against his back, makes you bite your lip. Then scowl. Then pull the curtain shut to block out the view.

You have to cut any gentleness off at the root.

When he comes back, you step to the side without a word to let him pour the water into the wash basin, hot water from the teakettle and lye soap making the water already in the pan sudsy. In a sense, it’s not any different from anything you’ve done back home; the same two pans for washing and scalding, the same cake of soap, and the same dish towel to dry the dishes off at the end. The only difference is the man that pours the cool water into the basin to make it more comfortable for your hands.

“I’ll be out back,” he tells you, before grabbing you around the waist and pulling you in close to press a close-mouthed kiss to the side of your head. You only scrunch your nose a little. “When you’re done, come get me. Got business in town.”

“Why do you need me to come with you?” you ask, lips cresting into a pout without a thought. You’d never considered yourself a bellyacher, but it’s almost second nature around John. “I can…I can stay and clean the house.”

“You saying I keep a messy home?” John asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You look pointedly down at the dirt he tracked into the kitchen after fetching the bucket of water from the well. “It could do with a spit shine.”

That gets a laugh out of him, a bellow from deep in his belly. It shakes you to your bones.

“Darling, I’ll be honest with you,” he says, turning you to face him before folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t trust you not to bolt like a runaway horse, and you’ll only wind up putting yourself in danger if you try to make a run for it out here.”

That expression makes your stomach twist. “Good to know you think of your wife as some scared filly.”

“You talk a whole lot for a woman who’s been over my knee. Do we need to repeat that?”

When his tone goes stern, you lose the wedging piece of candor keeping you upright. Eyes widen and then narrow. He’s been patient despite your loose tongue, but when that patience slips, you can see the steel underneath his gentle exterior. It’s the true root of him.

You clam up under his stare, sullen and begrudging. Smooth your dress down to have something to do with your hands. You’ve forgotten your place again. Side-stepped it out of intimacy or misplaced trust or naivety or forgetting, again, for the umpteenth time, that the world is not a place for women that open their mouths. So you keep it shut, trap every festering word behind your teeth.

He must not like something he sees painted on your face because his brows draw closer together, frustration brewing anew in his eyes. The longer you stay quiet, the more irritated he grows, his nostrils flaring wide.

“See that you come get me as soon as everything’s squared away in here,” John bites out, pointing a single, blunt finger at you. “Else I’ll come get you myself.”

And we wouldn’t want that, you think, surly. You hope it swims across your eyes. Blooms on your face. Perhaps it does.

The lines around his mouth and eyes grow more defined when he smiles. His whole mustache moves with his smile, every part of his face expressing his satisfaction. It’s beyond infuriating. He taps you on the nose with his knuckle before leaving out the backdoor, not sparing you a backward glance. You nearly shake with indignation.

It’s hard not to watch him out in the paddock while drying the dishes though, not with him set against the gilded sun. You inch the curtain slightly open, just enough of a gap to peer through. The Stetson shadows his face when he tilts his head up towards the sky, the hard edge of his jaw the only thing that meets your gaze. It’s not the first time you’ve seen a man out in the fields or pastures, but most of those have been at a distance, removed. Glimpsed briefly through the window while your train barreled on past acres of farmland.

John cycles through the morning tasks of guiding the horses into the paddock by a lead fixed to their halter, replenishing the food trough, and fetching more water from the well to fill the water trough. His horses are striking in the sheer size of them; muscled shoulders and legs, and well-padded flanks. Most of the horses you’ve seen out west haven’t seemed nearly as well-fed, many whittled down to rib and hip bone.

It says something about him, but you’re not ready to confront exactly what. You turn your attention back to the dishes, scrubbing the last of the dried butter and eggs at the bottom of the pan. It takes a little extra grit, but cleaning is a familiar chore—it’s one you’ve done all your life, what got you into this mess in the first place.

You don’t like what you find when you finally venture out of the house to track him down.

“I’m not getting on that thing.”

You put your veritable foot down with that, arms straight and stiff by your sides, more out of worry than annoyance. You do also give a little stomp for good measure, but you’ll chalk that up to reflexes should John inquire.

He doesn’t. Just stares down at you with unimpressed green eyes that haunt your days and nights now. Tells you without telling you that you’ll get on that horse, willing or not.

It’s not for a lack of beauty that you can’t quite shake the nervousness they elicit in you. Buttercup, the one that John saddled up and now waits patiently to be mounted, keeps her head low as if sensing your disquiet, curiosity glimmering in her coal black eyes. Not even the animal curiosity of is this a friend or foe, but the curiosity that comes with pure trust, almost intelligible that way.

John runs his hand down her smooth, buttery flank. “Did you enjoy yesterday’s walk?”

“I didn’t hate it.” Truth be told, you’d hardly been of a mind to notice it at all. Though your legs still ache from the walk back to John’s house, the walk itself had not seemed especially grueling in the moment. The mind can put aside quite a bit when it has something else to focus on.

“Well, I’m not too keen to repeat it.” He leaves it at that, tightening a strap on Buttercup’s saddle in such a purposeful way that your shoulders tense.

“I could meet you there,” you say, a touch desperately. Your stomach turns when you think about hoisting yourself up onto Buttercup’s saddle. It doesn’t seem possible. It’s not something you’ve ever done or ever considered doing. You remember horror stories of stableboys back home trampled under their hooves and stomped to death, kicks so powerful that they could break a fully grown man’s ribs or cave in his face.

“My wife isn’t gonna wander into town by her lonesome like some vagrant,” John says disdainfully, almost scoffing. Insulted by the whole idea. “And you’re sure as hell not staying here alone, darlin’.”

“Well, figure something else out because I am not getting up on that thin—” You cut off on a yelp when he circles around you and abruptly lifts you up. Your head rushes at the sudden motion, legs flailing beneath you.

“Quit squirmin’ like a damn barn cat. Little hellion,” John grits out, guiding your heel into the stirrup. “C’mon, you’re just side saddling, so you only need your butt on the saddle.” When he sets you down lightly onto the saddle, you stop wiggling around, acutely aware of the thousand pound horse beneath you. “There we go—that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

“I hate this,” you hiss, fingers clamped tight over the pommel.

“Aw, darlin’, don’t go insulting Buttercup like that,” John chuckles, replacing your foot in the stirrup with his own.

You sit there stiff as a board, perched precariously on the saddle as he hoists himself up behind you. His sheer proximity doesn’t register right away. You’re too concerned with the moving beast under you, its ribs expanding and contracting with each breath. Unlike you, John is more than comfortable sitting astride the horse, not a smidgeon of tension in his body. You suck in a horrified breath when you feel him readjust himself before settling down more comfortably.

He reaches around you to grab the reins, a sharp whistle signaling the horse to take her first stride forward, looping around the side of the house. Even the slow trot threatens to buck you off at first. You lurch forward with each step, certain that you’ll slip right off the saddle and onto the dusty ground below until John loops an arm around your waist and pulls you to his chest.

You grow stiffer in his arms somehow. Despite sleeping in the same bed the night before and sharing far too many kisses for your comfort or virtue, being pressed up tight against a man never gets easier. Perhaps if you’d been married for longer than a single day you’d be more at ease with the notion, but as of yet, it comes as a shock to the senses every time.

You carefully avoid the thought that other married women wouldn’t be still in possession of their maidenhead so many hours after their wedding night. That’s none of your business.

The two of you navigate into town at a slow canter, allowing you to gradually acclimatize to the gait of a horse. Part of you remembers riding horses when you were younger, but that was a lifetime ago, long enough to shake the memory from your muscles. These days, you can barely remember the hands holding you steady, the ones that would’ve lifted you up onto the horse and helped you back down. Those people are faceless in your memories.

John stays silent at your back, only tightening his hand around your hip when you slip the slightest bit when Buttercup picks up the pace, heading towards the familiar sight of the sheriff’s office. It draws a quick squawk out of you, neatly masked by a fake cough. His chuckle at that rumbles through you, clearly not buying it. Another lesson in humiliation.

You manage not to flail as much when he gets off the horse and helps you down, even though you’re still not used to being manhandled so, particularly not in front of the townsfolk milling about and glancing over with undisguised interest.

“Are you working today?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you while John ties Buttercup’s lead to the post outside the sheriff’s office.

“Don’t exactly get many days off when you’re the only sheriff in the county,” John replies. “We’ve got a few deputies in every town, and a couple here, but it ain’t an easy gig.”

“How many deputies have you got here?”

“Just the three. Simon, John, and Kyle. You met Simon the other day.”

His name draws up the faint memory of the masked deputy from your wedding ceremony. “I remember,” you say flatly. There’s no lost love between you and anyone involved with that sham of a wedding.

“Don’t hold that against him,” John smiles. “He’s a good ole boy. Can’t fault a man for following the boss’ orders.”

Watch me. You glance away lest he see that thought etched across your face.

The town is bustling with activity this late in the morning. Steps and floorboards creak under the weight of boots coming and going. A man going by in a horse-and-buggy whistles sharply when he cracks the reins, his horse puffing out a low, frustrated grunt.

Men hustle past you decked out in leather chaps and waistcoats, spats covering the half-boots of those not decked out in tall, spurred cowboy boots. There are far less women scampering about town than men, particularly not so close to the sheriff’s office, but you keep finding your eyes drawn to them.

John grips you under the arm and swiftly pulls you back when you narrowly sidestep a mound of horse droppings left uncovered in the middle of the road. The smell only hits you a second later.

“Well, that’s lovely,” you remark, deadpanned, putting your foot down deliberately a good distance away.

“Wouldn’t need to complain about it if you just watched your step.”

“You know, this really would’ve been a nice day to just stay home,” you mutter, chastised enough not to say something sharp in return.

While the smell makes your nose wrinkle, you have to admit that the air here is far less pungent than back home. In general, this bucolic town is far more pleasant in certain respects than the city you’d left behind in a haste.

“Where do you want me to wait for you?” you ask, turning to face him now at the front steps of the sheriff’s office.

He frowns. “Wait for me?”

“While you work, I mean. Surely you don’t mean for me to sit inside all day twiddling my thumbs while you work.”

His mustache twitches with a smile. “Thought I’d show you around first—get you acquainted with the locals.”

The idea of mingling with the townsfolk doesn’t appeal to you, but you also can’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. Especially with the curious glances already being sent your way. You duck your head to stare down at your boots when you spot a group of other women clustered together and whispering to each other, their eyes trained on you. Somehow you’ve gone from being furniture in a room to being a source of local gossip, and it’s almost hard to believe that you miss being ignored.

When you look back up at John, you find him still staring down at you, waiting patiently. Up close, the sunlight almost turns patches of his beard gold; he has a smattering of moles across his face, not the blush of freckles but rather a few dark spots by his nose. Aside from the tuft of hair under his bottom lip, his chin is mostly bare, and when he smiles, his whole face moves with it. You have to blink to snap yourself out of it.

Your upper lip curls involuntarily when you say, “So you want to help me make friends?”

“Well, seeing as I know most of ‘em, figured I’d be a help.”

“The job’s really not all that busy then, huh?” You really wish you could learn to shut your mouth, since it keeps getting you in trouble, but the barbs roll off your tongue so naturally. Luckily, it seems to amuse him now more than it did early this morning.

“Guess life isn’t as exciting ‘round here as it is back in the city, but it has its days,” John chuckles. “Now come on; I’ll give you the tour.”

For some reason, you hadn’t pictured the town being quite so big, but during your walk, you realize you’ve vastly underestimated the true size of it. Though not anywhere near as ostentatious as the cities back east, the sheer breadth of it eclipses anything from back home. It’s spread out on an incomparable scale, the mountains in the background stretching out along the horizon like the skeletal remains of a giant long since dead and decayed.

It’s not the ramshackle town you envisioned when you stepped off the train the other day, despite the wooden facades and their brightly painted signs. You almost wish you had more time just to admire the craftsmanship, but John leads you from store to store like he’s on a mission.

He seems most interested in towing you around like some prized mare, all trussed up and clean from your bath the night before. You meet so many people that their names and faces all begin to blur together. The worst offense of all is that it makes you lean on John for support, looking up at him again and again for reassurance whenever you can’t answer a question or your answer triggers a moment of awkward silence.

Those moments come aplenty too. The few people nosey enough to ask you about your life back in the city find themselves on the butt end of a cheerfully delivered lie from John. It unnerves you at first, seeing how comfortable he is with lying. He doesn’t even hesitate for a second when recounting your previous life as a schoolteacher in Connecticut prior to your engagement.

Perhaps it’s not a lie though. You don’t know the extent to which he and his original betrothed corresponded. Certainly not enough for him to suspect you of not being her, but maybe she’d spun him that story. Or maybe it had been the truth. All this time you’d thought that John had been swindled by some con artist using desperate men to fund her lifestyle, but maybe somewhere between here and Connecticut, there’s an unmarked grave with the corpse of the woman that John had intended to marry.

That makes you feel guilty somehow, like you’ve taken something not meant for you. Even if you hadn’t wanted it—in fact, been forced into taking it.

You swallow that thought when John leads you into the general store. Your eyes bug at the sight of a blonde haired woman in khaki cloth knickerbockers stocking the shelves, who turns at the sound of the door creaking open, the sharp look on her face melting away at the sight of John.

The warmth in her face infuriates you more than it should. You have no right to feel this way—or, some right, but you resent the fact that you do as well.

“Hi John,” she greets. Her voice is deeper than you anticipated, springtime crisp like a babbling brook.

“Laswell,” John greets, scooping his arm around your side until he can palm the side of your hip, dragging you in close. You stumble into him, catching yourself with a hand on his chest. Your neck and face go hot when Laswell’s eyes turn on you, curiosity glinting in them.

“Your lady finally showed up then,” she surmises. “I’ll be honest, I was starting to think you made her up. Told the boys to think about forcing you into an early retirement.”

John huffs at that. His fingers tighten at your waist when Laswell says your lady, as if the words alone make it fact. Speak it into being. The metal burns against your ring finger. In a sense, it is fact, despite the subterfuge. You wonder if it would hold up in court, but out here, it’s real enough.

“Well, she’s very real, as you can tell.” He gives you a little shake with the hand on your waist. “Say hi, darlin’.”

If looks could kill, yours would be pit-viper venom. You’d leave behind a festering puncture mark and a body in the throes of envenomation. “Excuse me?”

Your attitude might come at a cost this time because he looks unamused at your back talk in front of an audience. “Darlin’.” It’s said like a warning.

You bite your tongue instead of lashing out. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Kate Laswell; I own this little shop,” she says, introducing herself and stepping forward to hold out her hand. You have to step forward to take it, pulling you out of John’s arms. It feels familiar being on your own, certainly more natural than being constantly at John’s side the way you have for almost two days now. It’s also a bit cold after having John’s warmth at your back or side at all times.

There’s a moment when you realize that Kate is the first person you’ve had to introduce yourself to, John having introduced you to everyone else you’d come across. It hovers on the tip of your tongue when you realize that you could just say your real name, and you find yourself torn between setting it free and the odd fear of John’s reaction.

You chicken out at the last second, giving Kate the same name as the one John introduced you by to everyone else in town.

“He might growl like a bear, but you’ll get used to that,” she says, winking.

You frown. Awfully familiar talk for someone who isn’t his wife. Why should she know that?

You make yourself push that thought away, reminding yourself again that it doesn’t matter. It’s none of your concern.

“He’s been a gentleman,” you croak instead, smile so thin that it might as well be a grimace.

A shout from the bar across the street startles you, drawing your attention away from the conversation. John stills too. A series of raised voices puts him on alert, and then someone inside the bar must fire a gun because the violent crack of one makes you scream, the noise pulled involuntarily from your chest.

“Stay here,” John growls, his pistol already drawn. He’s out the door before you can respond, darting across the street towards the bar and shouldering the door open so hard that it rattles in its frame. You watch everything happen through the window of the general store with your heart in your throat.

“Good Lord,” you whisper, hand over your mouth. Kate stands beside you in a similar manner, her eyebrows pinched in concern.

The thought doesn’t even occur to you that now would be the perfect time to make a break for it, with John busy across the street. Your feet are rooted in place; you doubt you’d be able to take so much as a single step towards the door.

There’s precious little that you can see through the grit-lined bar windows, not as dusty and dirty as they are, but you can hear the commotion from inside. Raised voices and the sound of breaking glass. It makes you flinch, heart galloping at an even faster pace. Like harness horses on the Freehold Raceway. It’s not long before you see a large, masked man hightailing it down the road towards the bar, dust clouding around his boots with each heavy step.

You recognize him almost instantly as the man from your wedding, the one that signed your marriage license. John’s man—Simon. He nearly takes the bar door off its hinges when he throws it open, barely in there a second before he and John come out each with a man in hand, both already handcuffed and looking roughed up They drag them stumbling down the dirt road towards the sheriff’s office, Simon half-dragging another man whose white button-down is slowly saturating with red blood oozing out of a gunshot wound in his belly.

“Shouldn’t they call a doctor for that man?” you ask Kate in a frantic voice, whipping around to face her.

She nods. “They probably will once they’ve got the four of them locked up. Doctor probably heard that anyway—he’ll be on his way, I bet.”

“On his way already?”

“There’s only one doctor around here. And not much else sounds like a gunshot.”

“Does that happen a lot around here?” You don’t know why the thought makes you nervous, but there’s a cramp in your belly and a sweat building up on the back of your neck and your hands itch to grab something. When you swallow, it almost doesn’t go down.

“It’s not uncommon. I reckon it’s not something you’re used to?”

You purse your lips. “I’ve seen a dead body before.” You don’t know why that comes out so defensively, like a slight that’s been levied against you. There’s no easy way to dispel the myth in everyone’s mind that you come from a life of comfort and ease, with delicate hands fit for delicate work. You curl your hands into fists at the thought, conscious of the old scars and calluses built up over years of scrubbing and cleaning. If she were to look down, she wouldn’t see the well-kept hands of a lady.

When Kate quirks an eyebrow, you realize that your response had nothing to do with her question. “Well, look at you.”

When John and Simon disappear into the jailhouse, the door swinging shut behind them, you sway on your feet for a second, feeling oddly unbalanced. Something about the sight of the man’s blood leaves you feeling woozy, taking the chair that Kate offers you when she sees the way you rock back on your heels.

“Let me get you something to drink,” Kate offers, brows now furrowed sympathetically at the pathetic sight you must be. “I’m sure you got a little fright thinking of your husband facing down a man with a gun, but I’m afraid that comes with marrying a sheriff. There’s danger everywhere, you know.”

What you don’t say is that your lightheadedness came not just from the sight of the man with the blood leaking from a wound in his stomach, but the grim look on your husband’s face as he carted away the man responsible, eyes hard as steel. No sympathy for the man in his hands. Only another criminal to be tossed away in a jail cell. The punishment for making another man bleed.

Your hands shake in your lap, but you don’t say that. Instead, you smile weakly and take the glass of water from her hands when she comes back from filling it at the sink. “You’re right. Just a little fright.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #captain john price #price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader

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artificial-transmutations · 8 months ago

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Wrong bag, bro

Music blared from my headphones while I was running on the treadmill when I first saw the guy. It was obviously his first time in the gym, and after having gotten a short introduction, he looked around uncomfortably before approaching the weights. I sighed and stopped the treadmill. It was a good gym, at least judging from the equipment and the cost. The staff, however, was... improvable. It was clear that the new guy had no idea how to start and he would probably hurt himself like that.

"Sup? You're new here?" I said as I approached. He almost jumped when he heard my voice. I took a good look at him when he turned around. He wasn't very fit, at least compared to me. I mean, I'm no bodybuilder, too, but I do go to the gym a few times a week and try to stay in shape. The other guy was visibly unfit, with a small belly and no definition at all, but hey, we all have to start somewhere.

"Uhm. Yes. Actually, I wanted to lose a bit of weight. I'm Jonas. Do you work here?"

I chuckled. "Na, man. I'm Travis, and I just work *out* here. Why are you trying to get fit?"

Jonas seemed to be a bit embarrassed when he answered. "I... hope that will make dating easier. It's hard to find a boyfriend like... this."

He gestured down his body.

"Hey, you should do this for yourself, not for someone else. But yeah, I get what you mean. Chicks dig muscles, too."

The last part was probably unnecessary and somewhat spoiling the message, but I couldn't help it. It was a reflex to make clear I was straight. Really stupid, I know, but hey, that's just the straight genes talking.

Thankfully, Jonas took the hint and didn't hit on me as I showed him the ropes. He was mightily insecure, but a nice dude. After a while, he called it a day and we went to the locker room together. Having started early, I felt it was time to head home, too.

I took out my gym bag from my locker, as did Jonas, and got my soap out.

"Are you not going to shower?" I asked as Jonas just changed to his street shoes.

"Oh, eh, no, I'll shower at home." he said, and I understood. That guy was so self-conscious it would probably be hell for him to shower in a communal shower, so I just shrugged and said:

"Alright. See you around."

After the shower, I went to my gym bag to change into my street clothes but when I opened it, the contents seemed unfamiliar. Of course. Jonas had the same black gym bag as I did and must have grabbed the wrong one. That could happen. I just hoped I'd meet him again so we could swap back the bags. For now, it wasn't that much of a problem. I didn't have any valuables in there, and it seemed that Jonas had brought a towel as well, so I could just use his to dry myself.

What had been in there, however, were my street clothes. I mean, it wasn't a big deal, I could just wear my gym clothes until I got home, but somehow, I got curious and rummaged through the contents of the bag. There was something that immediately jumped into view and that was...

A pair of pink boxer briefs.

I mean seriously? How much gayer could it get?

I was just about to stuff it back into the back, when I hesitated. My gym compression shorts were soaked with sweat, and apparently, the boxer briefs seemed to be clean, I rationalized, but somehow, I *wanted* to put them on, for some weird reason. Well. I shrugged and just acted on the impulse, I mean, it was just a pair of underwear, right?

As it turned out, poor Jonas must have been not that well-endowed. The pair of boxer briefs was awfully tight and hugged my ass and my junk so firmly it was almost a second skin. I looked in the mirror and was a little surprised. My cock wasn't exactly small, but the underwear still didn't leave much to imagination either. But they were clean, and the fabric was quite pleasant to the touch, so I decided I would wear them until I got home.

Man, Jonas was probably in for a surprise when he discovered my XXL jockstrap from my bag. And unlike his - sorry - faggy underwear, I had worn that thing for a day now, so it wasn't exactly clean. I mean, there wasn't any reason for him to put it on, but what if he was curious? Or what if he was a little pervert who liked to experience the smell of a real man?

I shook my head. Where had that thought come from? I quickly got dressed in the rest of *my* clothes and drove home. However, during the drive I couldn't quite shake the thought of how Jonas might just be sniffing my jock, jerking his pathetic little cock furiously while doing so. Man, I really had no idea what was wrong with me today. When I arrived at home, my cock was hard and leaking pre into Jonas tight little pink underwear. Looks like I needed to blow off some steam.

I put on some lesbian porn and fished out my cock and balls from its tight confines. I have to admit that jerking off while wearing Jonas' briefs was oddly exciting.

At first, my eyes were glued to the two chicks on the screen, but as I got close to shooting my load, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Images of Jonas, wearing my much too large jockstrap came immediately and unbidden, but it was too late. With a groan, I came all over my toned and defined upper body.

I needed a moment to recover after that before I could start cleaning up. I stuffed my junk back into the pink underwear without really thinking about it, but realized it wasn't quite as tight as before. Perhaps the fabric was adjusting to my bigger mass. I was just about done with wiping the cum off my chest when my phone dinged with a message from an unknown number:

Unknown number:

"Hey there, it's Jonas, from the gym today. It seems like I grabbed the wrong bag when I left, and I want to return it to you. Can you give me your address?"

I thought about it for a moment while I saved his name to my phone. He probably found my number on the lost and found card, and I was just to agree, when I stopped. There was no rational reason not to swap back the bags as soon as possible and I had no plans for today. But...

Travis:

"Sorry, man, I can't today. How about tomorrow? We can meet at the gym."

I seriously had no idea why I lied, but not-so-little Travis twitched in the underwear as I wrote the message.

Jonas:

"Sounds good. Sorry I took your bag, I only noticed when I got home."

Travis:

"Don't worry, there's nothing important in there. Just my sweaty jockstrap, haha."

What was I doing? Why would I chat with a near stranger about my underwear? I was interrupted by the answer from Jonas.

Jonas:

"Yeah, I have found that thing already."

I hesitated. My cock was straining against pink fabric again, even though I just jerked off a few minutes ago. I really shouldn't be that excited, and I really shouldn't lead the poor gay guy on, but I couldn't help it. My fingers typed all on their own.

Travis:

"I see. And what did you do with it?"

It took a while before the next answer came in, and I feared that I had alienated the guy.

Jonas:

"Well, I'm wearing it right now."

Ha! I knew it! That guy was a pervert after all. I looked down at the tight pink boxer briefs struggling to contain my erection, while a small patch of precum had formed at the tip of the tent. Takes one to know one, right?

Travis:

"That old thing? I'm sure it smells sweaty as hell right now. Can you show me?"

Almost instantly, Jonas sent a picture of himself, wearing only the jock. It was way too big and baggy on him, and I could see his whole body in all of its unfit glory.

But somehow, it didn't look so bad. Absentmindedly, I squeezed my cock while looking at the picture. Then, with a mental "What the hell", I snapped a selfie for Jonas as well, of me wearing his pink boxer briefs. I didn't care to hide my boner, although it was less obvious than I thought. Might as well give him something to drool over, right?

After I had sent the picture, I looked at myself in the mirror some more. There was disappointingly little pump on my frame considering that I just came back from the gym. In fact, I looked even smaller than before I went to the gym. That couldn't be true, right?

But the bathroom scale confirmed. This was crazy! You didn't just lose five kilograms of body mass just like that. Especially, since my body mass was mostly muscles!

I took another look at the mirror, but it was true: my arms, my legs, even my chest. Everything looked less defined than before. And my chest was pretty smooth, too. I usually shave it, but since I have a high testosterone level or something, there's always a stubble remaining. Not so today. As I felt my chest with my hand, there was only smooth skin. What the hell was going on?

I looked back at my phone, and Jonas had answered again.

Jonas:

"Looks good on you, you should wear it more often! ;)"

Did he really think so? My heartbeat quickened on the praise from Jonas, and I could feel my cock reacting again. It must have gotten soft over the whole panicking, but reading this single line from Jonas was enough for it to strain against the tight underwear again.

Except... It wasn't *that* tight anymore. Sure, it was still a pair of boxer briefs and was supposed to cling to the skin, and it did, but before, my muscular ass, pelvis and of course, my large cock had filled it to the breaking point. Not so anymore. In fact, it fit pretty snugly, and although my cock was hard as a rock, the bulge it produced was much smaller than before.

My phone dinged with another message.

Jonas:

"Are you still there, Tray? You're still in for the gym later?"

Later? I thought we had said tomorrow! And why did he call me Tray? I quickly composed an answer.

Travis:

"Do we have to? I thought we'd said tomorrow."

The answer came immediately.

Jonas:

"Stop whining, Tray! I know you wane be big like I, so you must work hart!"

I cringed from the amount of spelling mistakes, but before I could answer, Jonas sent another Pic.

Was that still the same guy as before?! Sure enough, he was wearing my jockstrap, and the face was similar, but boy was he *ripped*. His arms and legs looked like he basically lived in the gym, and his hairy chest was sitting heavily on his perfectly sculpted eight pack abs. He even had a tattoo!

I looked back to the mirror in distress. I was positively scrawny, and not just in comparison. *My* arms and legs looked like twigs from a tree that were about to break from a strong wind. And were Jonas had all that chest hair and stubble on his chin, I was totally hairless, except for my perfectly styled bleached blonde hair.

I started to hyperventilate and had to lean on the sink to not fall.

What the hell was happening here?!

The phone dinged again, and I picked it up.

Jonas:

"Excpext yu wantto let ur tongue work out insted Todays bitch canceled and I Ned so to worship my "

It was getting really difficult to read, but I got the gist of it. But that wasn't right, right? Jonas was gay, just as me, and... Hold on, I... No, Jonas. Jonas wasn't gay, he was bi. Of course, with that fuck stick inside his smelly jockstrap, he'd fuck everything that moves.

All by itself, my hand had entered my pink boxer briefs and was jerking like crazy. Luckily, there was enough room in the underwear, as it was a bit loose usually. Even with my delicate hands, I couldn't close my hand around my shaft, it was just too small for that. So, I jerked with two fingers until I could finally stop myself. My cock wasn't as important for the upcoming meeting as my beautiful ass and my eager tongue that would submissively lap up every drop of sweat from Jonas manly body, so he would reward me with that magnificent cock of his. But still, no need to spoil the fun.

Tray:

"I'm coming over right now, Sir!"

I hope you enjoyed this little switchup! A few additional images can be found at my tip jar :)

#male transformation #muscle transformation #straight to gay #dumbing down #sweat

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absolutebl · 2 months ago

Text

This Week in BL - I'm using the word "ridiculous" a lot

Organized, in each category, with ones I'm enjoying most at the top.

Dec 2024 Week 3

Ongoing Series - Thai

Your Sky (Sun iQIYI) ep 5 of 12 - OMG they’re so fucking cute I can’t stand it. It’s too much. Everyone is adorable. Including the father. (That said, I wouldn’t recommend watching Naughty Babe with your dad. That’s a big leap there, cutie pie.) The 10 minutes of holding hand negotiation and then finally walking together across campus was truly fucking fantastic. This show is GLORIOUS. Now we also know when it finally does move from dreams to reality, that these two can kiss.

Actual name of this show?

How to Train Your Seme

Speaking of names, Fah's brother, whose name I forget, is now going to referred to by me as Sarcastic Cupid. Because that is his role in this narrative. I love him very much.

On a completely different note, and I know this is not that kind of show, but this is me so I have to say it, if these two ever do have sex it’s gonna take them hours. They just gonna spend half the night negotiating. Which is kind of tantric, but my goodness would they even make it into bed?

ThamePo (Fri YT) ep 2 of 12 - i just love this show!!!! so happy to have this one my screen. The dads have to save the little musical family! So cute! And illegally pretty.

Love Sick 2024 (Sun iQIYI) ep 14 of 15 - They substantially took steps to fix Phun‘s dad character in the new version and I really like that a lot. I'm chronicling my experience with 2024 as compared to 2014 here.

Caged Again (Fri Gaga) ep 7 of 10 - Why is this absurd show so damn good? When Sun has to beg it’s just too much. It’s too sweet and aching and hurtful and wonderful. Catnip = the sex herb trope was not anything I’ve ever thought I would see in my lifetime. Okaaay now. Relax little show. Too far.

Fourever You (Thurs YT) ep 12 of 16 - The extended version is clearly better. But I’m not gonna bother to pay for it. Again, I’m liking the new couple more and more each week. I still prefer the first couple of course cause Pond but it’s enjoyable enough.

Note: I'm super grateful for those posting them as clips here on the hellsite. Because man can these boys kiss!

The Heart Killers (Weds Gaga) ep 4 of 12 - this show is so entirely and utterly ridiculous. I don’t even know what to do with it or myself. Or what to say. Carry on, I guess?

Also I don't know what GMMTV is smoking to tease this one, but I'll take a hit next time they pass the BL bong.

Perfect 10 Liners (Sun YT?) ep 7 of 24 - I am living for Pond & Sand. they are pretty much all I care about. Yes including the upcoming couples. I just want pond sand. sure the main couple was fine it was a perfectly serviceable ending to their arc such as it was. All in all I enjoyed this episode big smile on my face most of the time.

Secret Love (????) 1-60 of 81 eps - Someone dropped a cut together of episodes one through 60, and I actually quite enjoyed it. It’s a total soap opera and very much a pulp. But I kind of love that right now. Frankly, 1-60 is a completed story arc. If you want that. I will probably watch the whole thing if anybody ever uploads it or it turns up grey anywhere. But this was quite satisfying. Ridiculous but charming fluff about two stepbrothers, who aren’t really stepbrothers, who have loved each other forever and are reunited under trying family circumstances. 7/10 passes the sniff test

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Our Youth AKA Miseinen: Mijukuna Oretachi wa Bukiyo ni Shinkochu (Japan Tues Gaga) ep 7 of 11 - ARGH. The pain. what an absolutely stellar show. I can't believe we are only on ep 7!

See Your Love (Taiwan Weds Gaga) ep 9 of 13 - I love it. This show is fantastic. It’s classic BL, it’s hitting all of the tropes, and it reminds me of some of the best that Taiwan has done in the past. I’m charmed and enjoying it immensely. Taiwan isn’t great on endings so I’m reserving judgment, but what a current highlight to my week. I like these boys so much. Please be kind to me and them, Taiwan?

Eternal Butler (Taiwan Fri Gaga) eps 1-2 of 12 - Ever 4, a sophisticated AI combat robot, becomes the personal butler/bodyguard to Luo Bu Shi, a spoiled yet lonely young heir. And I like it a lot. Odd with a very old fashioned yaoi feel. Also actually kinky (not Thai kinky), I mean it's no JBL but I like it. Dommed into reading = hot.

Teenager Judge (Vietnam Sat YT) ep 12 of ? - I love our new rescuer, he v cute! Nice addition to the cast. I hope we get more of him. Otherwise, this was more of the same. I’m getting pretty fatigued with this bully stuff at this juncture.

Love in the Air: Koi no Yokan (Japan Sat Gaga) ep 8 end - A lackluster adaptation of some already questionable content, that managed to lose all the limited charm and massive chemistry of the original. It was a mistake to do with less runtime not to mention put both climaxes in the final episode. Too much all at once. By dividing up the two rescues and keeping them exclusive to their respective couples they highlighted the formulaic nature of the narrative and weakened the foundational friendships. The best thing about the original was the friendships both between the semes and the ukes. By having each boyfriend simply rescue his own boy without help, we didn’t get to see the depth of those friendships at all. For this reason, this installment was weaker than the original. My final feeling at the end was simply “OK whatever” not a ringing endorsement. 7/10 but barely that.

It's airing but......

Spare Me Your Mercy (Thurs iQIYI) ep 5 of 8 - on hold because it went out side genre conventions and I'm not sure what to expect. I'm waiting until it ends, then if safe I will binge.

Be Moon - Falling for my enemy's son (China YT) movie from HBD Studio airing in short bits but I couldn't find any this week.

Winter Is Not The Death of Summer (Thai ???) - has been picked up to air on WeTV, or something? Criminals who meet in prison fall in love. I did find it on YouTube, initially un-subbed, then subs happened by which time I got distracted. The first episode seems to be only six minutes long. It is very pulp. But it is intriguing. For now it's to the wayside until someone tells me it landed safely. Occasionally Thai pulps want to be edgy and it's not a good look on them.

0.5D (Japan ????) 4 eps - Supposedly a completed short. "Sales ace, Sada, has a secret that only his junior, Daiki, knows. He has pretended to have a gf for years, resulting in him being a virgin. But now Sada has fallen in love. Confused, Sada seeks advice from his junior." I sense another queer Cyrano De Bergerac. I can't find and it's good very poor review so Imma stop looking. Info here.

The Renovation (Thai mini One31) 2 eps - Writer turns his blossoming romance with holiday resort owner into a novel. Eh is it worth trying to find?

It Ended But?

Blue Canvas of Youthful Days (China Sun Viki) paused at eps 9-10 of 12 - I have been told the ending is OK if not great. I’m gonna hold off for a bit.

Next Week Looks Like This:

Final still to come:

12/29 Sangmin Dinneaw (Thai ????) ??eps - trailer Childhood friends (Thai & Korean) reunite after being apart for ten years. As the boys reconnect, their bond matures and feelings of romance begin to develop, in Thai.

Impression of Youth (Taiwan ????) ??eps - rumors are this is supposed to start this month.

Upcoming BLs for 2024 are listed here. This list is not kept updated, so please leave a comment if you know something new or RP with additions.

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

10 years later and it's still one of BLs best cuddles (Love Sick)

Always like a seme who asks permission. (Perfect 10)

(last week)

The tag BLigade: @doorajar @solitaryandwandering @my-rose-tinted-glasses @babymbbatinygirl @babymbbatinygirl @isisanna-blog @mmastertheone @pickletrip @aliceisathome @urikawa-miyuki @tokillamonger @sunflower-positiiivity @rocketturtle4 @blglplus @anythinggoesintheshire @everlightly @renafire @mestizashinrin @bl-bam-beyond @small-dark-and-delicious @saezurumurmurs

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lovifie · 9 months ago

Note

Hiii 🩷

I really loved your ‘Mr & Mrs. Price’ story where his partner he is marrying is younger than him! I was wondering if you had anymore of those stories?

If not, I was wondering if you could write a little after they get married sort of thing. Like would they have kids right away, etc.

Thank you!!

Hi love!! 🩷🩷 Thank you for asking so nicely 💕

At the moment I don't have anything else written for Price and her younger wife, so I'll write you a little bit of what I thought would happen after the wedding.

A continuation to Mr. & Mrs. Price

Suggestive | 730 words | Back to Masterlist

The first thing would be the honeymoon, and Price gives me the vibes to go somewhere cold, like the Norwegian Fjords (? I don't know why, he just does. Constantly clinging to his wife like: "I'm cold, dear. Can't you see?" Only to sneaky get his hands under your clothes.

Friends and family complain about how little photos you took, but it's just because most of what you took, were taken inside your room. So many, so many pictures of his hand on your body, the gold band on his finger shining on all of them.

So much fluffy/dirty talk. "My dear, wifey... See? I told you I was going to marry you one day, and look at you, Mrs.Price... so fucking beautiful under me..."

Neither of you are surprised when a couple of months later you get a positive pregnancy test.

"We used protection..." Price says, as if that would change something.

"Yeah... Until we run out, Mr. I Pulled Out." You say.

Having a child so quickly after the wedding was neither of your plans, but Price was already talking about taking a step back from the dangerous mission and for some reason neither of you were panicking after the news.

It was a weird feeling, at first at least. But on the doctor appointment, when you hear the little alien's heartbeat it was set. Price's hand holding yours, the whole way back home.

He did step back from the dangerous mission, working at base helping the recruits and helping on the small missions, not wanting to be far from you. So he spent his working hours at base, and one day he forgot some documents at home and asked if you could bring them to him.

So you did.

You grabbed the folder, and drove your pregnant self to base.

Ghost was the one who saw you first, almost as you stepped off the car. And he was immediately on your side, stunned when he saw your belly.

"Are you..." He asked, not wanting to be rude; looking from your stomach to your face.

You quickly nod, the man's eyebrows disappearing under his mask. He took the folder from your hands, as if it was a heavy piece of furniture you were holding making you laugh. "Congratulations... That's what people say, right?"

You nod again, holding onto his arm to ease his mind as you walk towards Price's office. Small talk about how you were planning a baby shower and if he would like to assist, the panic clear on his face making you chuckle again.

"I'm pulling your leg, Simon. I'll send you a message with the important news." You say, patting his arm.

"And I will be forever grateful for it." He says, slowly falling in a comfortable chat with you.

Gaz and Soap walk out of Price's office just as you turn the corner. Both their expression of shock.

"Captain!" Soap calls him, annoyed with just finding out. "Ye got yer missus pregnant already? Ye filthy dog."

Price furrows his eyebrows, walking out and smiling widely. Quickly walking to you to give a kiss on the lips, his hands resting on your tummy.

"How are my girls doing, sweetheart?" He asks, Simon hearing it perfectly.

"Girls? You are having a baby girl?" He asks, making Gaz and Soap repeat it as echo.

You chuckle again, taking the fold from Ghost's hand and handing it to Price. "We are doing great today, John. Here's the documents, Simon wouldn't let me hold them myself."

"Good lad." He says, nodding at the mancunian making you shake your head.

Unlike Ghost, Gaz actually asks you about the baby shower and if he can assist. Price doesn't say anything, but he is really glad he offered; having now a familiar face at the party.

And even though only Gaz assists in person, he brings a present. "From Ghost, Soap and I, hope the girly likes it. Whenever she uses it."

He says that because the gift is a bright pink toy car for the baby to drive around.

Price complains about the safety of it, but later at night when everyone is gone he sits on the sofa, looking at you drive the car yourself talking about how you always wanted one as a kid. And Price is not sure how he got this lucky in life.

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prettyoatmeal · 1 year ago

Text

TF141 Taking Care of Sick Reader!

A/N: Guys I'm so sick right now. This cold has hit me like a truck at full speed. I literally slept 13 hrs today?!?!?!?!?!? So lets go guys, sick HC's because I need some comfort.

Masterlist here!

***************

Price just doesn't care because he rarely ever gets sick. Whenever you catch a cold, he's just unfazed because he knows his body well.

This man will PAMPER you. He'll cook you whatever you're craving, and if you're not hungry, you're getting force fed a few cups of broth just so there's something in you.

He'll run you a bath with the soap you love so much, making sure it's nice and steamy in the way you like it. And while your nose his clearing up from the steam, he's massaging your shoulders and the back of your neck and wherever you ask him to. Because he'll be damned if his love has to spend one more second with their body aching.

Taking medicine with him is a chore for both of you. Him because he has to deal with your stubbornness, and you because liquid medicine tastes awful and theres no getting around it. He's just there holding the spoon with the burgundy coloured syrup and you're turning away every time he gets it close to your mouth.

"Sweetheart, I know it tastes awful but it's only here to make you feel better."

Ends up bribing you with taking you out to your favourite restaurant when you're better, but lets face it, he would've taken you anyway.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

And once you've finally taken it, disregarded the disgusted look on your face, he's actively kissing you on your cheeks, your forehead, maybe your lips as well despite how much you try to pull away from them. But you give in of course. He's only looking out for you and you love him too much.

Gaz I think would be a bit of a germaphobe at first.

Illness on the battlefield? Sure, he can deal with that, who cares Sickness at home?? Nope, the antiseptic spray is coming out and getting sprayed onto every surface of your flat.

You're not getting out of bed until you're sure you're fine because he'll be damned if he catches it from you. He's making sure every second of the day that you're fed, you're hydrated, you're comfy.

If you ask him very nicely, he'll let you cuddle up to him if you promise to not sneeze on him. But when you're finally in his arms, he sees your flushed face, your bleary eyes, the way you cling onto him so tightly even though you're so weak, fading in and out of sleep and he feels himself falling in love all over again.

"Poor baby. I'll take care of you, don't worry."

It happens every single time, it's hilarious. His mind changes every single time. Even if you sneeze on him, you'll get nothing more than a slight scolding as he holds a tissue up to your nose.

Medicine is different with him. Mixes it with your hot tea knowing just how much you hate taking it. If you question why it tastes so weird, he blames it on the temperature distorting the flavour and your messed up taste buds.

And it works, you never question it again.

After that, he'll turn your favourite show on just as background noise and it isn't long until you're falling asleep on top of him.

Ghost is not letting you lift a finger. If you stand up to go get something to eat or drink before he deems you of proper health, he's sweeping you off your feet and laying you back into bed.

"I can do things by- achoo! -by myself."

"No you can't. Stay put, lovie. I'll get your plate for you."

Doesn't want to make it seem like he's babying you.. but he definitely just is.

Simon is normally really good with letting you have your independence, he never wants to make it feel like you don't have a choice. But in times like these where you need to rest, he is having absolutely none of it and there's nothing you can do other that yourself be dragged back to your room.

This man will also chase you around the flat to make sure you take the medicine because you better get through this, and on his watch, you will be.

"Open up, Princess." while you keep turning your head away. Much like John, he definitely needs to bribe you with the shoes you saw on the way home one day or that new restaurant that opened a week ago. And only then you finally take it, gagging at the chemically taste.

After that, you will constantly be swaddled in warmth no matter what. Whether it be him since he's pretty much a radiator himself, a hot bath, or a million blankets and plushies. He just wants you as comfortable as possible for your weakened state.

For baths, it's almost certain he will join you. He'll let you lean back on him as he massages your shoulders, your arms, your thighs and legs. And you're left so dizzy and hazy because he's soothing your aching body so well.

He probably catches it a week after you, once you're already better and then it's your turn to take care of him :3 and you know just how Simon feels about being pampered and looked after.

Soap would be sick with you but stubborn as ever to let you take care of him.

He's just way too touchy and kissy and feely when you're infected, it's awful. Makes fun of you for having a bad immune system even though his is just as bad, if not worse.

"Shut your gob, Bonnie. I won't catch it. it's just a wee cold."

He catches it and it was more than just a 'wee cold'. You're both so weak, bodies throbbing and aching all over but he's still determined to make you his priority.

Going to the bathroom is a hassle because when you go, he'll go. He can't leave his love alone, not in this state! He'll stand outside the door like a cat does, just waiting.. and waiting.. and oh! You've accidentally opened the door on him because he can barely pay attention to whatever's in front of him.

To make up for it, you help ice his forehead.

He'll cook for you, infecting the kitchen with his boy-germs. But it's great because he can just put a few cups of broth up to a simmer and drink it with you on the couch.

Once it's time to take medicine, you both chicken out because it just tastes so gross. But knowing you have to take it, you made a deal to take it at the same time. You're both disgusted but clink your mugs together and use your tea as chasers.

Cheers!

Will sneeze on you more than once by accident. He's gross but we love him.

He definitely tries (keyword is tries) to stay awake long enough for you to make sure you're peacefully sleeping through your sick, but he definitely gets knocked out the moment he cuddles up against you.

***************

GRAHHHHH I'm so sick I'm going to bed. Cheers guys, goodnight

*************** DISCLAIMER Under no circumstances do I give permission to copy, repost, or manipulate my work in any way. I am not comfortable with this. If you wish to translate my work, message me privately. My inbox is always open.

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luveline · 2 years ago

Text

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Eddie goes home, you’re on tour, and the lines between you both continue to blur.

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Hawkins, Indiana, December 1990

Eddie listens to his walkman until it runs out of juice. Through the flight from California to Indianapolis, the hours-long bus ride that stops just short of Hawkins, and the final connecting bus on the outskirts. Some metalheads listen to strictly metal, but Eddie likes variety occasionally. Plus, he doesn’t think it’s possible to have ears and not love The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls.

He has one girl on his mind the entire journey home. He tries not to think about you. He makes himself sick shoving you down into a crevice of his heart, so he admits defeat. His fingers twitch, eager to write about you. He has some lyrics in mind. Evil wretched girl with wicked sweet hands. Heart eater. Soft around the edges.

He wants to write about your stupid chubby thighs and how they look in skirts. He wants to write about your wrists, your knees and their ever-present bruises. Metaphors for your sickly sweetness won’t stick; cruel becomes kind. Taunting turns teasing.

It feels like it’s eating him alive, spine first. You’re gnawing on his ribs as he hikes the half a mile from the bus stop into Forest Hills trailer park. He can feel your thumb rubbing makeup off of his cheek as he drags his suitcase up the metal steps to Wayne’s —Eddie’s— front door.

“Wayne?” he calls. It’s pitch fucking dark. He’s surprised he got all the way here without falling in some ditch. “Could you let me in? It’s freezing.”

He hears stirring from inside. He calls out again in case his uncle changes his mind. “Wayne, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s late. Please don’t leave me out here.”

He’s joking. Wayne would sooner shoot Eddie dead than put him in harm's way. He’s always been that kind of parent, hiding his deep rooted worry underneath a feigned reluctance. Footsteps shuffle and floorboards creak. The door opens between them, and Eddie shoves his suitcase and backpack inside without properly looking at his old man.

“Eddie, what the fuck, kid?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, looking up. Wayne’s squinting at him. He’s wearing jeans with deep creases. He must’ve been sleeping in them. “I timed it all wrong. Started coming home and I didn’t think about it. I walked here, you know that?”

Wayne hugs him. Eddie isn’t expecting it. It’s not like Wayne isn’t affectionate, he doles out shoulder claps and hair ruffles like candy, but their hugs are usually one-armed back-slapping affairs. This is a loose encircling with a scratchy cheek against Eddie’s forehead.

“I’ve been worrying about you.”

Guilt sinks like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. Eddie kind of feels like he might puke. He wraps his arms around his uncle and breathes in his smell. Diesel and grease, sure, but so much louder than that is his mint and rosemary soap.

The weight of Wayne’s arms over Eddie’s shoulders is one of his favourite feelings. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it, but then… maybe he had.

He wants to tell Wayne there’s no need to worry, but he’s never been good at lying to him. “Think I might have fallen off the wagon, Wayne.”

“Well. Happens to all of us.” He pats Eddie’s back and steps away. He doesn’t look any older than the last time Eddie saw him. In fact, he looks good. Puffy-eyed but healthy. “I thought for sure I’d have to come track you down and drag you back for Christmas myself.”

Eddie locks the door and Wayne shuffles into the kitchen promising coffee and cake. He should protest, tell Wayne he can go back to bed and they’ll catch up in the morning, but he missed the small stuff like this, when he’d get home late from band practice or a midnight premiere of a sci-fi flick and his uncle would be sitting up waiting.

Eddie loves being home. There’s something to be said about living like the rich —he loves all the high ceilings and endless cushy carpeting— but nothing feels as good as coming home. His room is exactly how he left it minus a few ashtrays and his super unsecret pot stash. The poster wallpaper and the cheap paint. His raggedy bedspread and the corners tucked in haphazardly by tired hands. Eddie resists the want to dive under the covers and slide into the dip in his mattress. He knows every box spring in that fucker, and he missed it.

Eddie drops his bags at the end of the bed. All the clothes in his suitcase smell like Coors Light, so he changes into rags he left behind, a too-big pair of plaid pyjamas that slip down his hips and a sleeveless Motörhead shirt. Maybe. The emblem is worn to nothing but black lines.

He follows the smell of coffee through the hallway and into the Munson kitchen, tightening the drawstrings of his pants as he goes, chin tucked to his chest. “I’m losing weight, Wayne, I’m like a fucking twig.”

“Don’t tell me that shit. God knows I taught you how to take care of yourself.”

“I’m stupid. I’m really stupid, actually.”

Wayne whacks the coffee maker. It whirs. “Pick a mug, son.”

“You been cleaning? I don’t wanna look down and see a spider in my cup.”

“Have you been cleaning?” Wayne asks.

“It’s insane how much I haven’t been cleaning.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“You fucker,” Eddie says, laughing up a storm as he picks out his favourite mug, the Garfield one with a big scratch down the left side.

“You fucker,” Wayne snaps back. “I should send you packing for the bad language alone.”

“They don’t make you clean your hotel rooms, Wayne, that’s the point of them.”

“I raised you better than that.”

“You did. I keep it classy, I swear, I just,” —Eddie sits down in his chair, watching Wayne stir in milk and sugar just the way he likes it, and feels more than sees as a familiar contentedness like a Gaussian film settles over their easy conversation— “don’t clean up after Gareth. He’s a monster.”

“Do me a favour, Eds. Try and be the best you can be, alright?”

He swallows. He purses his lips. A peculiar lump grows in his throat, but he bites it back and squares himself up. “Yeah. I will.” He thinks about all the parties and powders and girls. He’s never done any cruel shit to anybody and he’s a sweetheart with the ladies, but there are times when he’d known he was lying before he even said he’d call. He thinks about some of the shit he’s said to you and has to wipe his sweaty palms off on his shirt.

“I know we didn’t have shit when you were growing up,” Wayne says, not tearful or resentful, just honest as he passes Eddie his mug of coffee and sits down. “And all that money must feel good–”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie says.

“When I see my nephew on TV smashing up equipment worth more than his house–”

“I already told you on the phone it was an accident. And it wouldn’t be worth more than this if you actually cashed the cheques I send you. I know they aren’t bouncing.”

“I don’t want your money, Eddie,” Wayne says gently. It’s odd but not uncommon to hear him speak in such dulcet tones. “That’s not what I raised you for.”

“I know, you–” He cuts his insult off at the stem and scratches his head instead.

Eddie isn’t hankering for a tongue lashing tonight and his scalp is too itchy to focus. He hasn’t washed his hair in a week. It’s obvious just looking at him, curls weighed down and straightened out from the sheer grossness of it. “Shit, I’m disgusting,” he says.

“You’re gross,” Wayne agrees. “I’ll cash a cheque when the bank opens and get you a bottle of degreaser.”

Eddie hides his smile with a long sip of coffee. It’s hot and awful, ‘cause no matter how much love Wayne puts into it, dollar store coffee tastes like burnt grounds from the get go. Eddie missed it more than anything. Sometimes he’s in the back of the queasy tour bus or lying on the floor in his hotel room coming down off of something risky and all he can think about is Wayne’s coffee.

Wayne has a hard and fast rule about drugs: if it isn’t green, I don’t want you touching it. Eddie still remembers the gasket he blew when he found that little baggy of red and white pills shoved inside an altoids tin. He can’t imagine telling his uncle what he really meant when he said he fell off the wagon.

Hey, Uncle Wayne, I have this weird love-hate relationship with a girl I don’t really know, and I got caught up doing party drugs (unrelated to our relationship) until I got so high I blacked out, and when I woke up she was there and she was looking at me like you look at a bird with a broken wing, you know? Anyway, the memory of her face won’t leave me alone. It makes me feel like crying. So I haven’t touched anything in two weeks and I thought coming home for Christmas would make up for all the secrets I’m keeping, but now—

Now Eddie doesn’t know what he was thinking. He can’t tell Wayne any of that shit. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

Wayne would ask something like, It took a girl for you to realise drugs are bad news? And Eddie would say back, No, that’s not it, it wasn’t just her.

“I’m sooooo fucked,” Eddie says slowly, mildly, scrubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He drags his hands down his face and blinks against the burning he’s left in his wake.

“You’re not fucked, kid. Lemme cut you a slice of cake.”

Wayne cuts him a slice of cranberry coffee cake and Eddie eats it in two bites. Wayne makes him a burger after that. He doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s closer to night or morning, but Wayne doesn’t mention it until the burger’s gone and an alarm clock is ringing. Eddie watches his uncle truck into the living room and feels crestfallen though he doesn’t deserve to. Eddie hasn’t been home in months. He imagines Wayne alone at the kitchen table with an empty greasy plate waiting on him and wants to cry again.

Wayne returns in coveralls. He gets a good look at Eddie’s face and sighs, dropping a heavy hand into Eddie’s dark hair.

“It’ll be fine,” Wayne says.

I’m sorry, Eddie thinks. For being a bad kid.

He’d said that once. Wayne was sweeping up a smashed plate after a long shift and Eddie, thirteen and defeated with an ache where his mom should’ve been, had been trying to apologise. It had felt so crushing, that broken plate. The last straw. He’d had tears running down his pale cheeks, his hands in his hoodie pocket desperately grabbing at one another.

And when he’d said it, Wayne had just looked at him. On his knees with a brush, glass shards shining on the linoleum between them.

You think you’re a bad kid?

Wayne isn’t old and he definitely hadn’t been back then. Thirty something with a crying teenager and what felt like all the world's self-loathing crammed into a tiny kitchen. Eddie’s older now, and he knows how much Wayne gave up for him. Not just his bedroom, which had been relinquished with little more than a shoulder squeeze and five dollars for posters, but a life. Wayne could’ve done anything. Could’ve been a rockstar.

I ruin everything, he’d said. Teenage angst, maybe, but Eddie felt it in his bones.

You ain’t ruined anything.

He hadn’t known what to say so he’d cried, waiting for that nice heavy hand that tussles his hair and pats his back to finally strike out.

Eds, you’re not a bad kid. Said so quietly. With a steadiness that meant truth. You’re my kid. Could I make a bad kid?

And yeah, there had been a threshold of sincerity and they were passing it. It was the late 70’s. Boys really didn’t cry. At least, not in public. So Eddie wiped his snotty nose in his sleeve and laughed, and then he got on his knees to clean up.

“Try and sleep,” Wayne says now, older but unchanged otherwise. Still ridiculously forgiving of his not-so-young sprog. He looks at Eddie with his lips pressed together. Eddie wonders if he’s going to hug him again, but Wayne shakes his head. “Shower, you animal. I’ll be back early.”

Eddie sleeps. He showers. He washes his hair three times and doesn’t use conditioner so his curls don’t really curl but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He had a moment in the shower where he swore he remembered something you said to him when he was blackout on sniff cut with procaine and booze. Your voice tentative, the heat of your hand on his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He moans into his damp hands, limp hair hanging either side of his head and dripping into his pyjama pants. He can’t forgive his younger self for all the sleeveless shirts, not when Hawkins feels colder than the arctic circle and the window seal in the kitchen has been leaky for the last five years.

He thinks about going shopping, because no matter what Wayne says about degreaser, Eddie’s starting to realise that his uncle won’t be cashing any of the cheques he sent home, and if he wants Wayne taken care of he’s gonna have to do this shit himself, but he doesn’t know where his key is.

“I’m a fuck up,” he says, catching his eye in the mirror as he straightens out.

His reflection frowns at him.

He did manage to get Wayne some shit from California before he came home; a real brown leather jacket from the 60s with minimal wear, though if Wayne wears it is another thing entirely; a Roy Orbinson record that’s miraculously unwarped despite Eddie’s poor packing; more sweatshirts than his uncle could ever wear through. Eddie knows he’ll try.

There’s some other stuff. CD’s and a nice edition of War of the World’s. Whatever he could stuff in his backpack.

“Are you going home for Christmas?” you’d asked him.

He sat on the bottom step of a huge staircase and you the one above him. People walked around you without notice. Two rocks in a stream bed.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You aren’t sure?”

He’d got stuck looking at your cheek, the soft curve of it and the highest point, where light like a small star had kissed you and turned his stomach, that’s how sick with envy he was.

“I get it,” you’d said, “things at home aren’t always easy.”

“Not that. My Uncle Wayne is my hero.”

“And you still don’t wanna go home?” you’d asked gently.

“It’s not about what I want.” He remembers this part in detail. He’d stopped looking at you, laying back against the stairs, each step digging into his back. The ceiling had been far away.

You’d inched into his frame of view, looking down at him with an expression unreadable to his mixed up head. You weren't quite smiling. He still isn’t sure what it meant.

“It is. That’s the whole point,” you’d said.

Eddie’s all memory this morning. The ones with Wayne had felt less memory and more story, because memory is unfaithful, and over time we start to break down on the details, putting want in place of fact. But your face hovering above his as the soft strands of your hair ghost against his jaw, all your glitters and the shiny pink sheen on your lips, that’s closer. He remembers how you smelled, and how your tongue peeked out to wet your lips uselessly between words.

Jet lag and the general feeling of you keeps him lethargic, but he cleans the house (and he’s always said house, even if some people don’t agree, it houses him, fuck you Jenny P from eighth grade grade) and makes dinner ready for Wayne when he gets home. He puts the radio on and tunes into Roller FM. When one of Godless’ songs comes on, he’s not surprised. He listens with his head lolled against the kitchen wall, eyes closed, and tries not to think about your fingers choking the neck of your bass guitar.

—

Indy Rock Centre, Indianapolis, January 1991

Whoever arranged the tour is a sadist. You can’t believe that a team of professionals sat around a long glossy table with their coffee cups and finger foods and thought, yeah, that will work. You feel like you’re being fucking yo-yo’d between states.

When you’d joined godless as a stand in for Millyanna, your dates had been plentiful but never as disorganised. Nothing compares to this shit. You wonder if going crazy is a sign of making it big, or if maybe you’re not cut out for all of this after all.

Jan 22, Kalamazoo, Missouri. Jan 23, Toledo, Ohio. Jan 25, Los Angeles, California. Jan 26, Philadelphia; Jan 28, Indiana, Jan 29, Wisconsin. February? Back in Missouri, back in Ohio, a couple more state dates and then bam — Canada. Don’t worry though, after a week in Canada, you’ll never guess where you’re playing.

Fucking Florida.

At least you aren’t alone in your torture. For starters, there’s Morgan, your singer, and Ananya, your drummer, who will also endure and suffer. Then there’s the roadies, the techies and the groupies. The opening acts. The managers, the assistants, the personal assistants, the boyfriends and girlfriends and wives and mistresses.

And what’s more, you're one of the hundreds of bands touring in North America this year. Maybe thousands. You certainly aren’t the first musician to have to suck it up and tough it out.

Still, you like to complain.

It’s your right, for dealing with Morgan. And also— you aren’t getting paid for the tour until after the tour is over, so really complaining is the wealth of the soul. You do get a weekly allowance, which is awesome and not something you were getting beforehand, working instead on an invoice. You’d play a show, you’d get paid for the show. This time you’re getting a flat rate at the end of the tour that’s been contractually agreed upon. It’s more money than you’ll ever know what to do with. One of the more shameful ways you waste time in your little bus bunk is trying to figure out where to put it.

I want a house, you think. A mortgage on a small, pretty house where the weather isn't too hot or too cold. And a puppy. Probably. Maybe a fish tank. I want a bed that spans from one wall to another and…

You wince. For a moment, you’d seen something stupid, a pale face hidden in the pillow across the way.

Two puppies, you think forcefully.

You’ve played four shows already this week. You have one tonight in Indy Rock Centre, and another tomorrow in Wisconsin. You got to stay in the warm, non-vibrating luxury of a hotel room last night, but tonight you have to play the show and get straight back on the bus.

“You’re gonna glare holes in her. What did she do?”

You stop your mindless staring and come back down to earth. Ananya’s smiling at you, thick eyebrows lifted in wait for your answering gossip. You’d been staring at Morgan where she’s sitting across the room in a plush armchair, cucumbers over her eyes and swarmed by makeup artists and hairstylists with a pedicurist at her feet.

Ananya does all her make up herself. You want to ask her to do yours, but you worry her messy sweetness won’t suit you. She overlines her already big lips with a sticky red-pink, giving her an effect of having just been kissed (a lot), and rings brown eyes with a slick black kohl.

“She hasn’t done anything. Yet. Today.”

“She has been a monster, hasn’t she?” she asks, sinking down into the couch with a sigh. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her curls are so healthy they bounce.

You hum your agreement and slide down with her. Touring again, Ananya has remembered how much it sucks to be alone without allies. Morgan gets especially volatile from the stress and close quarters. She’s nicer when you’re alone.

She’ll still ditch you at a moment's notice, but you get it. It’s like high school.

You miss Dornie.

It’s cruel to make a friend and suddenly lose them. You can’t help thinking he won’t want to be your friend again the next time you see him. It had been so nice… so peaceful, to know there was someone in your corner. Dornie doesn’t care how famous you are or how much money you’re making. He just wanted to make sure you got home safe and talk about old movies.

“I’m gonna go find something to drink,” you say.

Ananya nods. “Bring me back a coke?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan stops you on your way out with a foot in front of your legs. “Hey, killer, I gave one of your passes to a fan earlier. Is that cool?”

“Morgan, when have you ever cared about my opinion?”

“Ooh, meow,” she croons, taking a cucumber from her eye to squint at you. “What’s the matter, baby? I figured you weren’t using them.”

You smile at her. You can’t help yourself. She stopped hurting your feelings a long time ago. “You want a drink from the machine?”

“Sparkling water, serf.”

If you smudge her nail polish on the way past it isn’t your fault. It isn’t cool with you that she’s given away one of your passes, even though you ask your general manager Angel to give them out at the beginning of the show every night. It’s presumptuous! Normal people don’t do stuff like that without asking.

Serf…

Your nose wrinkles. The dressing room door closes at your back and you take a moment to recall where you’d seen the bank of vending machines in the maze of white hallways. Indy Rock Centre is one of the biggest venues in Indianapolis, and you’ve been here before countless times on the other side to see Black Sabbath, Metallica, The Stacey’s, Doorway to Cooperstown. It’s where all the biggest and best get to play. You wish they’d given you a map.

You can still walk around without getting recognised. You’re not a superstar, just a guitarist. You smile at people who smile at you and avoid the rest, dodging past black polo shorts wheeling equipment and busybody higher ups barking orders. Someone stands in a corner talking on a brick of a handheld phone. You stare at him for a bit. You’ll never get used to it, phones without wires. Next there’ll be TVs without satellites and electric guitars without amps.

The vending machine shines like a red beacon at the end of the hallway. You hurry to it, feeding the machine your crumpled per diem one dollar at a time. You get a coke for Ananya, sparkling water for Morgan. When it gets to your own drink, the machine starts to revolt. It spits your dollar out unsympathetically. You pull it from the mouth and flatten it against your thigh.

It doesn’t work again. You nibble your bottom lip. Dollar pulled taut between your two hands, you lift your knee and rub it against your stockings.

“Fucking fuck,” you whisper, watching in mild horror as the machine accepts and then rejects your dollar for a third time.

You tuck it back into your purse, a pretty leather thing that clasps shut and fits perfectly in the small pocket of your jacket. It’s your luck, but whatever. They’ll probably bring a couple of bottles of water to the dressing room in a bit. Maybe even a cocktail bar.

“Hey.”

Your internal monologue chokes. You question your senses for the split second it takes you to meet his eyes — baby browns, soft and flush with gorgeously long lashes. If there’s one thing about Eddie Munson, it’s that he has very sweet eyes. Not the kind you can replicate in daydreams.

He’s dressed like a bitch. You’re so sick of him. He has his jacket tied around his waist and his shirt has no sleeves, the alarmingly shapely stretch of his arms on full display. Black ink climbs the hills and ridges of his stark veins, his herd of bats jumping as he offers you a dollar.

You take it. You aren’t sure what to say, so you bask in the almost-silence, every nerve aflame as you feed the vending machine and click the button for your drink. Equipment cages rattle. Radios chirp. Your drink thinks from behind the red Coca Cola panel down into the bottom of the machine for collection.

“What’re you doing here?” you ask finally, squatting to grab your drink.

You stand, train your eyes on the floor, shove your drink under your arm, and crack open your purse to give him your defective dollar in exchange. He takes it without fanfare.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

Regrettably, no. The majority of soundcheck is done, and the show doesn’t start for hours. He gestures to the left and you follow, stupidly, with no idea where he’s leading you to and not a clue what he wants, leaving Morgan and Ananya’s drinks for whoever finds them. Eddie’s jeans aren’t as loose on his hips as they were the last time you saw him. His distracting arms are bigger, biceps like a taunt as he holds a door open for you. You take a breath as you pass him, but he doesn’t smell like anything. No sweat or cologne, no cigarette smoke.

“Is it mean if I say you look good with clean hair?” you ask, squinting in the sudden brightness.

He’s led you outside to the back of the venue. Your tour bus stands imposing at the end of the lot, surrounded by Godless branded vans and fancy cars. A truck beeps as it loads into the receiving area backward.

“Probably.”

“You do, though. Look good.”

“So people tell me.”

Fuck, you think. Fuck it. If he’s gonna be weird about it then you’re pulling the olive branch back in and snapping it in half.

The sky is white as snow. It hurts to look at, the sun like a steaming egg yolk covered in its own whites, thick clouds shielding her warmth. You pull the sides of your jacket together and button up, uninterested in catching a cold when the next six months of your life are planned down to the hour. Eddie puts his jacket on and zips it tight.

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks.

“Why?”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he felt self conscious. “Why not?” he asks.

You nod. You and Eddie aren’t friends, but you aren’t not friends, either. You’re being cold because you’re seized with embarrassment, not because he deserves it. You have memories of his hand on your cheek, and a cherry stem between his teeth, and you don’t know what you said exactly but you know it hadn’t been amicable small talk. You hate him for knowing stuff about you that you’d wanted to keep secret, and you hate yourself more for telling him in the first place.

“I came home for Christmas. I’m back in Los Angeles tomorrow night.”

“That’s convenient,” you say.

“Just had to see you before I went,” he agrees. Deadpan humour is terrifying on him.

He ducks under a low tree branch and holds it away from your face. Together, you begin to walk down the street and into the city, over patched sidewalks and past brand new stores. The mom and pop shops of your childhood are mostly gone.

Conversations between you two have this odd oscillation between over familiarity and stilted nothings. You like over familiarity better, when you’re both prone to misunderstandings. You’d take snipping at one another over this strange quiet.

“Is it nice? Being home?” he asks finally.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’ve been here for what, a month now? I just got here, and it wasn’t to see the ‘rents.”

Eddie lifts his chin to the sky a touch. Molasses of sunlight seep through the clouds now, racing to caress his waved hair and high cheekbones. “It’s been awesome,” he says, his eyes closed. His voice like tree bark, uneven but tough. “Makes me wonder what I liked about L.A. so much.”

“All the free stuff,” you offer. “And free girls.”

“The girls aren’t free,” he protests.

“You aren’t getting free girls?” you ask.

“Are you?”

“Would that bother you?”

Close-lipped, his tongue pokes the skin under his bottom lip.

“You think stuff like that bothers me?” he asks.

“It bothers some people.”

Eddie isn’t meeting your eyes consistently, but you don’t think he’s lying when he says, “No, it wouldn’t bother me. But my Uncle Wayne would fucking kill me if he heard me agree that the women are free.”

“How progressive.”

He visually bites back a laugh. He looks up from his shoes and sees you smiling and it breaks him, his laugh sputtering out in bits and pieces. “Shit, I’m just trying to be an okay person.”

You concede, “Fine, the girls aren’t free. They’re just very happy to sleep with you for very little reward.”

“Some might say the reward was, you know, pleasure–”

“Ew–”

“Don’t be childish. What did you want me to say? The reward is a long night of rough and tumble fucking–”

“I liked pleasure better,” you interject. You dance around a huge crack in the sidewalk and pause as you and Eddie reach a crossing. “All night? Really?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“I don’t think you could, Munson.”

“I could…” He rests his hand between your shoulder blades. “But I don’t think we’re there yet.”

He encourages you to cross the street, weaving and winding between parked cars, moving cyclists, and a small family bulldozing passers-bys with a twin stroller. When you’ve crossed to the other side uninjured, his hand falls away. The heat of his palm lingers.

“Good observation.”

“You’re sarcastic today. Or is being on the road making you cranky?”

“Being on the road is definitely making me cranky. It fucking sucks, I forgot how badly it sucks, and I don’t get paid day to day like I used to.”

“Oh, you’re getting a flat rate now? Go you, superstar.” Your walk is more of a crawl, the two of you turned to the left side of the street where children shriek and giggle in the outdoor seating of a restaurant. Eddie stops. “How’s the allowance?”

“You get one of those too?”

Eddie bumps his elbow into yours. “We’re kids. They know it. It’s pretty shitty considering how much money they make off of us in the end, but that’s an asshole thing to say, right? We’re lucky.”

You roll your shoulders. He’s more than right. Coming from nothing, a small town, with no college degree and no rich parents to float you, Eddie’s right. You might have talent and you might work hard but so do a lot of other people, and you’re here, and they’re working for minimum wage back home still hoping.

You wish every kid like you could get to where you are, but they won’t. You’re more than lucky. You should buy a scratcher.

“We’re fucking lucky,” Eddie says slowly. “And it’s awful anyways.” He grins. “Come to dinner with me?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner? I’ve been there before,” —he points to the restaurant you’d stopped across from— “and it’s nice.”

You’re insane and you agree. It’s not too fancy to feel like you’re on a date from the outside, and once you’re indoors you feel relaxed. With a glass of cider in your hands you feel positively giddy.

Eddie slouches back into a velvet booth seat that might’ve once been red. He keeps the jacket on and you’re grateful for it, lest you see his stupid nice arms and turn ditzy. His nose twitches as looks out over the restaurant floor toward the kitchen visible through a long window. It’s warm but not stuffy in here, the air fragrant with browning butter and minced garlic.

The menus are sticky. You pretend to pour over one, not knowing what to say to break the silence.

“I know I said you were being sarcastic,” Eddie says, “but I think I meant quiet. Even when you sound annoyed, I can barely hear you.”

“That’s dramatic,” you murmur, proving his point.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Well, in what way?”

“What way feels wrong to you?” he asks.

Trapped. You sip your cold cider. He raps his knuckles against the table. “Come on, what have you got to lose? What did you say to me before?” His eyes soften. “Nobody would believe me if I told them.”

You tap your glass with your thumbnail.

“I’m okay,” you say honestly. “Most of the time, I feel fine. Or, I forget what’s wrong.”

Eddie flicks his own glass. “Is this about feeling like nothing?”

“I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“And you were feeding me booze.”

“Don’t say that. You make it sound so shitty.”

“It wasn’t shitty,” you say. “Free drinks, right? What’s shitty about letting a pretty guy pay for you?”

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks.

You kick him under the table. You don’t know what comes over you, shy at your own honesty and irritated with his ridiculousness. I let you kiss me, you want to say. I’d let you do worse. Of course I think you’re pretty. You aren’t cruel — it’s more of a shove with the toe of your shoe. Eddie laughs through a gasp and kicks you back, heel of his converse flat to your calf.

“You fucking–”

“Sweetheart?” he finishes.

“No, fuck you. You string me around with your hot and cold act and now you’re coming to my shows taking me to dinner,” —your voice stiffens, thickens, as you glare at him from across the table— “asking me how I’m doing? And I’m the one who has to explain themselves? You tell me, Munson. Do I think that you’re pretty?”

Eddie’s sort of frozen, like a laugh got stuck in his throat and he really is surprised by your sudden anger. You might feel surprised yourself if you had the wherewithal. As it stands, your irritation and your want for an answer is too much.

He hits the toe of his shoe into yours. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not… trying to string you around.”

He doesn’t say anything else. You deflate, ashamed of your sudden outburst. Tired of all the games.

“I think you’re pretty,” he says.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

The food arrives and saves him. You want him to explain —you want him to expand, needily, on what he means and how much he means it— and he clearly doesn’t. He grabs his fork and starts shovelling pasta into his mouth like it’ll magically turn the conversation to something more palatable for him.

“I’d like to change my answer,” you say.

Eddie swallows harshly. “Can’t. All compliments have been locked in. Maybe at our next cat fight.”

—

Eddie’s heart isn’t pounding like he worried it might when he asked you to follow him into the bathroom. He pictured sweaty, shaking palms, his hands hesitant, a reminiscent picture of a past self who didn’t know how to make girls make noise. He thought the next time he was alone with you, it would be the tragic scene from the movies where the boy bears his heart and the girl can’t accept it. He’s not expecting you to understand. It’s getting to the point where the mean shit he said to you isn’t made up of words anymore but the image of you in the Prover Theatre with your sparkling dress and your dull eyes. He hates that he made you feel that way, and he should say sorry. He feels fucking sorry.

“Don’t cut me,” you say, quiet so you won’t be caught together.

“I won’t.”

“When was the last time you did this?”

“It’s like riding a bike,” he insists. “I haven’t forgotten.”

You simper. Propped up on the sink’s counter, your skirt hiking up your thighs (imagine him covering his face with his hands, rocking his head from side to side, you’re wearing garters) and your jacket falling into the basin. You’ve turned one arm toward him trustingly, but apprehension plays clear as day over your mouth. He wants to remark that your mouth is pretty, but it’s not the right word. Perfect feels closer, but again, it’s not what he wants. He has a fascination with how you talk and when you don’t, how your lips have a mind of their own sometimes, nibbled and popped and pouting.

“It’s easier if you take your shirt off.”

“How many girls believed that one?” you ask happily. He’s ecstatic. Dinner perked you up and now you’re all smiles and warm laughs. He doesn’t know why you’d been angry with him (he does) because you started it (not really), but you got something off your chest at least.

“None,” he says. “I’m serious that it’s easier. But you really don’t have to take it off for me to make it look good.”

Eddie wields his small pen knife toward your arm.

“I like my sleeves,” you say as he takes the hem of one such sleeve into his free hand.

“Don’t be a baby.” He pulls it taut from your skin. You’re both smiling. Carbs are good like that.

“I have fat arms,” you try.

He’s out of his mind. Eddie leans down and kisses the top of your arm quickly. “Shut up,” he says.

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s done. It’ll torture him tonight when all he has for distraction are hotel sheets, and then tomorrow on the red eye back to L.A. He honestly doesn’t wanna look at you because if your nose is even slightly wrinkled he’ll have to turn to the gross toilet in the corner and chuck up, but he also doesn't want to freak you out. He looks up at you from under his lashes.

You look flustered.

Not disgusted.

“I’m doing it,” he warns.

“Yeah,” you say, nearly normal. “Fine. Make me look cool.”

“You admit that I look cool.”

“No.”

Eddie digs the tip of his pen knife into your sleeve and starts pulling. The fabric tears away in a jagged-lined but even circle around your arm, broadening a tantalising stretch. His stomach hurts a bit. To reach your second arm, the one furthest from him, he has to take up station between your spread legs. Or maybe he doesn’t have to, but he does, your thighs like two warm spots either side of him as he leans in close.

“And this is what’s gonna make them all like me, right? This is the cement of my street cred?”

“Your street cred? No. And I don’t think anything you do could make them like you.” You lean back at his words. He pulls you back in, fingers braceleting your arm as he fakes taking a measurement. “If they don’t like you already, they won’t. Not your fault, not your problem. Who says you even like them?”

“I do, though. That’s my problem. I even like Little Miss Fleetwood,” you grumble.

He raises his eyebrows to show he’s listening, stabbing at your sleeve and tearing slow. “She still tripping you up?”

“No. I’m just trying to make you laugh.”

He laughs under his breath. “Mission accomplished, baby,” he murmurs.

Both sleeves sliced, Eddie steps away from you, ignoring the heat in his stomach to take you in. People who don’t know where they stand shouldn’t be so close to one another, he decides, ‘cause wishful thinking has him marking your hands as wanting. Your fingers move slowly as if through water, tip of your index on the left hand stroking down the back of your right marriage. Eddie pins salaciousness on everybody he meets —coke is falling out of fashion fast but sex is always in— but he can’t get a faithful read on you now. He wants you to want to be kissed. Doesn’t trust that you do.

“You look edgy.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” you ask.

“An awful way.”

You go quiet, your hands go still. You raise your head until it’s too much, and he realises he’s been moving back in. He drops the penknife in the sink on top of your jacket, putting his hand on your freshly bared arm and bunching the sleeve up as much as he can without it pulling at you. He’s greedy and he wants to palm at your skin like an asshole, that’s not your problem.

“That bad?” you ask.

He angles his face over yours. He needs two inches maybe three, and you’d be kissing. His hand falls down your arm to your elbow, clasping weakly over your skin.

“No,” he says. He can barely hear himself.

Greedy. His second hand comes up to your face, waiting, and when you lift your jaw just so he slots his hand under it and holds you.

“What are we doing?” you whisper.

What are ‘we’ doing?

“Nothing you don’t want to do.” He widens the gap between you.

“I know– I know that.” Your arm ventured forward, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. You tug it gently, pulling him forward again. “I just don’t understand it. You. I don’t get what’s happening, Eddie.”

“Well… I was going to kiss you.” Eddie fights to sound the way he feels, out of his element but so earnest his chest aches. “I really, really… want to kiss you.”

It doesn’t feel like admitting defeat, as he’d initially thought it might. Neither does it feel confessional. You can’t confess to a secret already known.

He kisses you just once. A light brush of his lips against yours. Anymore than that and he knows he’ll start making promises like someone who has room for them. His eyes scrunch closed hard and he struggles not to squeeze your poor cheek as the pressure of your lips builds, as they part, as he pulls back and you chase him. He can’t kiss your mouth anymore than that, but your hands are grabbing at him, pleading and twitching and cold against the searing skin of his abdomen as they search underneath his shirt. Eddie feels the soft curve of your hip under his hand, knowing he can’t fuck you here, and undecided on whether that’ll be his ruin or his saviour.

You shudder as he kisses down. His hands are hungry but his mouth is sweet, gentle like you deserve as he noses down the column of your throat.

“I don’t get you,” you say, your fingertips sewn into his hair, scratching over his scalp lightly. Your breath catches as he parts his lips. His teeth scratch over the damp crescents of previous kisses.

He loses himself in the ticklish feeling of your hand and the heat of your skin. “Hm?” he hums.

“I understood you better when I thought you didn’t like me.”

He kisses up to the soft crook of your jaw before edging you away, just enough to see the sad set of your eyes.

“Hey,” he says, utters, like you’re trading secrets. His thumb rubs your cheek, a rough touch. He’s never been much good at aligning his words with actions; his heart and his hands.

He doesn’t know what to do to fix your sad frown. He kisses you again in case that’s what you wanted but couldn’t say, and it works for a handful of blessed, wretched seconds. You kiss back hard. Eddie has to break it to take a breath.

You rest your forehead against his. It slides slowly to his nose, and eventually you’ve bowed your head, your hands slipping down to his elbows.

“I feel sick all the time,” you say. Your hands flex against his skin. “The only time I feel alright is when I’m playing– when I’m making something.” You press your head to his chest. “Or when I’m with you.”

Eddie thinks of all the shitty decisions he’s made. His restlessness, his bad attitude. His propensity to assume the worst. How he’d taken your thumb rubbing a smudge off of his cheek in the Prover Theatre as a jab, rather than a helping hand.

He wraps his arms around you.

Your head fits under his rather well.

“I know what you mean,” he says. And out of everything he’s told you today, that’s the hardest to say aloud.

Eddie hugs you in the dim light of that dingy bathroom knowing he’s running on borrowed time. All too soon, you’re pulling apart and he’s helping you off of the counter unnecessarily. You don’t hold hands on the way back to Wings Stadium. He thought you might. You’re quiet. He tries to cheer you up, feeling more and more like he’s done something wrong the closer you get to the venue.

He doesn’t have anything to offer. You’re both on tour now. He doesn’t have a clue when he’ll see you next, or what he’ll say when he does.

Miraculously, he gets you back to your dressing room. He gives your cheek a quick squeeze.

“Play well tonight,” he says.

“I always play well.”

You do. He watches you from the VIP section a couple of hours later, impressed. Mildly nauseous. His thumb worries the edge of the pass until it splits in his hand, paper coming apart from cardboard. Your singer might be a handful, but she knows when to be discreet. He slinks out before your set finishes through a side entrance, and his head races with your image. If it weren’t for your cut sleeves and the flank of your upper arm glowing under the stage lights, he’d put his kisses down to surreal delusion.

Eddie doesn’t notice the lone photographer hiding in the eaves.

The photographer notices him.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

!!! thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging, it helps so much! Let me know what you thought, what bits you liked and what you want to see next

can you feel another spat coming along 0.0 I honestly had so much fun writing this one especially the scene with Wayne and then the end scene in the bathroom <3 it’s always crazy to see hours and hours condensed into chapters like this but idc I’m having the time of my life and hope u guys r too! the word count is now at a solid 26k I believe though so it does feel rewarding in that way

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson #stranger things fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #rockstar!eddie #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson angst

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darlingsfandom · 1 month ago

Text

Time to Clean.

requested: Hey, how are you? I hope so.I'm the same person who asked about Emmett, about the beard care part.I ask you if you do the second part where, you decide to help him take a shower, since he stinks and you can't have sex because of his particular smells, but this time it will be more smut because yes 🤭

TW: p in v unprotected , cream pie, shower sex and swearing.

Not proofread.

You loved Emmett, with your whole heart but sometimes he’d drive you nuts. He was a handyman by day and a handsy man by night.

“Good day at work?” You asked as he came in, hung up his hat, coat and untied his boots before walking into the kitchen to kiss you. You kissed him softly before pushing him off.

“Why are you pushing me away, don’t you love my kisses?” Emmett furrowed his eyebrows together with a slight pout on his slightly chapped lips.

You tilted your head in sympathy before grabbing his shirt.

“Honey, I love you so so much, but…” you sighed before looking into his eyes. “You’re a stinky man.” You wrinkled your nose before Emmett stood up straight.

“Am I always as you said.., stinky?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“No, not always. Just on extra hot days or any day that you work long hours or…”

“Basically it’s all the time.” Emmett ran his hands over his face before leaning against the counter.

“I mean you went how long without showering before things became normal again? It’s going to take awhile babe. I just got you into beard care, maybe I can help you with extra self care… and if you say yes… shower sex is on the table .” Your finger poked his nose making him perk up before grabbing your hand, running to the bathroom and pointing to the walk in shower. You rolled your eyes playfully before grabbing a new loofah, a bar of soap and some sugar scrub to help with his smell.

It really wasn’t his fault. Emmett had been alone for such a long time before he met you and had been use to his own smell. Yes he showered everyday, but not to a full extent, sometimes he’d just rinse off and call it good because that’s what he had grown to know. Now he has you, trying hard to help readjust to a new world that was acting like nothing ever happened.

Emmett stood before completely naked with a grin on his face. You but your bottom lip before stripping down to nothing making Emmett let out a playful whistle.

“Got myself my own goddess!” He wrapped his arms around you before helping you into the shower. You started the water as he peppered your face with kisses.

“Emmett! No sex until after you get scrubbed down babe.” You giggled as he continued with the kisses until it dawned on him that there was no sex yet. He gave you that signature pout until he seen you grabbing hands and turning him around so he was under the hot water. A sigh of relief left his body , his muscles relaxed as the water melted him. You grabbed the bar of soap, lathered it into the loofah and gave Emmett a soft smile before placing the loofah onto his wet, hairy chest. He watched in awe as you slowly moved the loofah up and down.

“What’s that smell?” He asked scooping some of the suds onto his finger.

“It’s just bar soap honey, it doesn’t have a signature smell like my soap does.” You washed over his stomach next before squaring a little bit to wash over his legs.

“All your soaps smell different and pretty!”

“Do you want to smell pretty Emmett?” You asked scrubbing his calves.

“Depends on what you got baby.”

You stood up carefully, grabbed his arms and washed them before turning him around to scrub over his back.

“I have coffee scented soap right now.”

“I’ll take it!” He said eagerly as you washed his neck.

Emmett jumped a little when you poked his butt playfully before giving him a soft spanking.

“Someone’s having a little too much fun back there.” He looked over his shoulder with a smirk before blowing you a kiss. You gave him a little wink before squeezing out the loofah, hanging it back up and grabbing the liquid coffee soap to squeeze into your hands. After you lathered up the soap you washed over Emmett’s body carefully watching as he watched you while letting the water rinse him off. Once you had him cleaned on that part he grabbed your hips and put you against the shower wall.

“I know there’s more to do but I need you.” His lips were on yours before you could even process a thought. Your arms went around his neck as the two of you made out heavily.! Teeth clanking against each other , small yet heavy bites on each others lips all while his hands snaked over your curves and up to grab your breasts. Emmett pulled on your nipples slowly making you moan into his mouth. His tongue slipped into your mouth as you moaned.

Emmett switched spots with you so you could feel the warm water too. He moved his mouth onto your nipples, biting them slowly but hard enough that they would bruise. Your hands held onto his biceps the best they could as he kissed between your breasts. Emmett looked up at you before he lifted up your leg and hooked it around his waist.

“Fuck me baby.” You whined.

His eyes darkened a little before he took his cock and pushed it inside of your cunt.

“FUCK!” You gripped onto his arm as he pushed all the way into you. His animalistic side took over. Normally Emmett would slowly push into you and gently fuck you but not right now, now he needed to feel you on him. He watched as your jaw dropped while he held your hips and fucked you like you were just a toy. Your eyes rolled back in your head as he bounced you on his cock with no mercy. His groans filled your ears along with a few growls which made you whine since he was treating you like a doll. You loved this side of Emmett because it didn’t always come out. He loved giving you pleasure anyway possible so it was important that you felt good, but when he was in his dominant mood… he was all in.

He watched how the water splashed off your tits, how they jiggled as he pounded into your cunt, it was the best sight he’s witnessed. Your hand slipped down the glass door of the shower that had been fogged up from the steam of the hot water and the heavy breathing coming from the two of you.

“That’s my good girl! Fucking taking my cock like a common whore!” Emmett reached down between your wet bodies and rubbed your clit with his thumb as his free hand readjusted your leg to keep it around his waist.

“I’m your whore baby.” You pushed your hips up to meet his thrust and Emmett smacked your thigh.

“No no sweetheart, I’m taking what’s mine!” He growled between teeth before kissing you sloppily. Your body was covered in goosebumps. Your heart was beating so fast it could’ve ripped right out chest.

“Emmett! Yes! Fuck! I’m yours!” He nipped at your throat making sure to cover all of it with dark purple hickeys . There wasn’t an area that didn’t have some sort of bruise since Emmett loved to mark you and you enjoyed just as much.

“I know that look, you’re going to cum, but you’re not cumming until I do!” Emmett fucked into your cunt faster making you whine as your hips started to buck again and this time he let you. Emmett watched as your face started to twist with pleasure , leg squeezing his waist tighter, you were on the edge. His thumb circled your clit harder as he looked into your eyes and that’s all it took

“Please Emmett please! I’m so close!” You begged while grabbing at his arms.

“Cum with me sweetheart! Cum like the good girl you are!” Emmett coaxed you through it.

Your climax ripped through your body, squeezing his cock tightly as you came. You tried to shut your eyes but Emmett slapped you to keep eye contact. His own orgasm hit him as you came down from your high. He held you tight as he shot his load into you making you whimper.

“Emmett, you make me feel so good baby.” You hiccuped out a soft breath making him smile at you before gently unhooking your leg from his side. You stood on wobbly legs before he bent down to kiss the top of your head.

“You make me feel good too sweetheart.” Emmett stroked your cheek before you grabbed some more soap and to his surprise you started washing yourself. “No no baby, you washed me now it’s time for me to wash you.”

For once is his life Emmett knew what it meant to feel loved and it was all because of you.

#a quiet place emmett smut #aqp emmett #cillian murphy emmett #emmett a quiet place #a quiet place emmett drabble #a quiet place emmett fluff #cillian murphy #emsblurbs #a quiet place emmett #a quiet place smut #a quiet place #cillian murphy smut

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laswells-ashtray · 1 month ago

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Okay, here me out on this. Gonna do this anonymously cause social anxiety is scary and I've never left an ask before, first time for everything I suppose. :')

I was randomly just watching the missions for MW3 cause I loved the concepts of some of them, just hated how most of it played out (Like how did Graves survive being blown up? Or how it felt like the story was rushed at points). Then I remembered the mission where Price got trapped in that silo thingy with the poisonous gas stuff that I cannot remember for the life of me what it is called (Think the mission was called Reactor,if you wanted to look it up if I don't explain it that well). Loved that mission cause to me it showed that Price wasn't this almighty powerful captain that doesn't get injured that badly compared to everyone else in 141.

Had a random thought of just the in-between part of when Price passed out to when he woke up on the helo. Was scrolling through the random posts and when I got to the one where Mac had met Price's team and stuff all I could think about was what if Gaz or Soap or anyone who's met Mac just tell Nik or Laswell to call for grandpa. I find it hilarious just the thought of Price's subordinates panicking over the fact that their captain, (and practically father figure sometimes due to how often he mother hens them), had inhaled poisonous gas then passed out and wanted help from someone who's known Price for years. Then cue Mac just showing up on base in Price's office or calling Price really late at night being like "You have 5 seconds to explain what happened and how in the world you got into that situation Mister. I do not care that you're a captain now I still hold seniority over you Price, I will pull that card you little shit." Cause despite the fact that Price was a pain in the ass when he was Mac's sergeant he still cares for the stubborn Brit's wellbeing.

Sorry if I started ranting, I love cod and finding the posts have made me do my happy stims. :) Especially reading the silly ones, always makes me feel better when having a bad day.

Made me get my glasses for this one, in a good way I'm just blind as shit. A little bit. Also never apologise for ranting, this is a safe place for ranting, rambling and threats of bodily harm but only if they're polite about it.

Firstly, I know exactly what mission you're talking about because I can't get past the second juggernaut and had to rage quit because I was giving myself a stress headache.

Secondly. I've missed writing more Mac if only because I have to write so English-ly for everyone else.

When the door opens, John doesn't look up. He assumes it's Nikolai coming to check on him, Ghost popping his head in to call him a twat again or one of the sergeants asking how he's doing. He doesn't expect to see the same, worn soles of some battered old boots that he's been trying to convince Mac to get rid of for over ten years park themselves on his desk.

Nor does he expect to see Mac watching him, arms crossed over his chest, and a look of blatant fury on his face that makes the hair on the back of John's neck stand up.

His chest is still tight and there's a familiar ache in his throat, he's too old to be getting fucking gassed anymore. Whatever cancer he'll be riddled with in ten years is not worth it.

"Well?"

He isn't stupid enough to answer that, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. If Mac didn't look ready to deck him, he'd likely be lecturing John about "uncooked joints on the table".

"Jus no gonnae say a fucking hing tae me? Dae a luk like a store dug?"

He groans and ignores the rattling behind his ribs, running a hand over his face as he prays that maybe, just maybe Mac will go easy on him.

"What have you been told?"

He doesn't bother asking "and by who?" because he doesn't want to be annoyed at any of them, and it was likely Kate.

"Ye inhaled a fuck ton ae somehin ye shouldnae 've and a hud to hear about it fae someday else."

He nods, looking at the older man wearily. "That's about it, didn't think you'd need a play-by-play."

Mac lowers his feet off of the edge of the desk and drags his chair closer to the desk with a grating scraping noise that makes john wince.

"Right, lad. Genuine question, are ye a fuckin tit?"

It appears to be just that, a genuine question if the way Mac is arching a brow at him means anything. The Scot doesn't allow him the opportunity to answer before talking again.

"Ye must be, cuz we both ken launchin heed first intae somethin filt wae somehin that mangles ye is some biblical arsehole-ity, John."

John briefly considers slamming his head on the desk. It'd do no good to explain that it was for the mission, Mac would probably just skelp him over the back of the head for implying that wasn't something the retiree already knew.

"You did worse back in the day."

MacMillan only narrows his eyes at him, clenching his hands into fists on his lap.

"Dae ye take me as a gid fuckin example wae these things, son?"

John shakes his head, staring down at the desk in front of him.

"Swear tae fuck, ye pull a stupid stunt like that again and a'll huv yer fucking knees wae a crowbar. Christ, is yer self-preservation that far oot the fuckin windae?"

That has John looking back up at him through narrowed eyes, everyone kept jumping down his throat about it as if they wouldn't have all done the same for the sake of a mission. It was part of the job.

Mac slams his hand down on the edge of the desk, irritation washing over his face in waves.

"Dinnae fuckin luk at me like that, crabbit wee git. A get tae rip intae ye fir stupid shite like this or did ye forget that? The fuckin heart attacks ye put me through fir years and ye huvnae changed a bit? Ye canne be dain that tae every, ye might act like an ignorant arse but ye've got folk aroon here that actually don't like the thought ae attending yer fuckin funeral, ye daft cunt."

Maybe the older man can see the exhaustion that's settled in John's bones, wearing him away from the inside out. Or maybe this is just how MacMillan felt years ago, it might just be an inherited trait that presents itself alongside the captain title.

"Get tae bed, son. We're talkin aboot this the morra. And tea wae lemon fir yer throat, ye sound like ye've been gargling shrapnel."

#captain john price #john price #kate laswell #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #cod nikolai #nikprice #cod macmillan

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just-jordie-things · 2 years ago

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I have a idea so like, there this challenge, it like the kid tells their mom to shut up, and see what the dad does

And I wondering if you could do

Toji, Gojo, Geto, Choso, Sukuna, and Nanami, and who whoever else u want to do

Hopefully you like the idea thank you!

definitely some crack head canons but i love crack content and barely write it myself so lets go for it !!

FUSHIGURO TOJI

as annoyed as you'd be with your kid for being disrespectful, you're instantly scooping up the brat and holding them to your chest bc toji is booking it from across the house.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY YOU LITTLE SHIT?"

your kid is crying instantly (from guilt- bc they know better than to talk to you that way- and now their dad is going to going to raise hell)

they're wailing about how sorry they are- "I didn't mean it mommy!" over and over- it's almost annoying

toji thinks that must come from you because where else would the brat learn to take accountability pfft

he probably stuffs their mouth with soap and they'll never speak to you that way again.

GETO SUGURU

in an au where geto isn't a mass murderer...

if he hears your child tell you to shut up, he instinctively straightens up and tells them to "knock it off!" in that classic dad tone

probably goes for a time out session- but if your kid's especially bratty then he's gonna make their life hell. by that i mean the most brutal torture of all- no phone, no tv, and no hanging out with friends for the week. *shiver*

but your kid's a good kid, they just had a nasty moment and let their words get ahead of them. so that night they're knocking at our door and telling you they're sorry.

geto doesn't want to lift the grounding, but you're a fair ruler in this household and grant your kid their little freedoms :)

GOJO SATORU

just for kicks- this one will be megumi centered, bc i love bratty little megumi heh heh heh

when he tells you to shut up, he hadn't even thought twice about it. it's not like he had a filter.

he also hadn't really meant it, it was sarcastic of course, because megumi actually liked you- but he'd never admit it.

(you were the lesser of two evils when it came to gojo)

but the words come out and in the next second he's dangling in the air, suspended there with Gojo's hand firmly wrapped around his ankle.

you're squealing, scolding the childish man to "put him down!" but he's not listening.

the brat tried to hurt your honor after all. and he must defend it.

"apologize to my wife, brat! or face punishment"

("i'm not your wife, satoru" "hush, wife" *eye roll*)

megumi's thrashing around, little fists swinging and missing as he tries to attack the blindfolded idiot

"go on. keep fighting. all the blood will rush to your lil' noggin and then you'll pass out. i'm sure that's a pleasant feeling"

you can't stand by and let this go on, so with a sigh you pull megumi away from satoru, and place him upright on the ground

"those techniques may work on other eight year olds, 'gumi, but you'll have to try harder if you want to take on a big oaf like him"

"hey!"

"okay" megumi agrees with a nod, before mumbling an apology for his previous rudeness, and running off with pink cheeks.

CHOSO

as soon as the kid says it-

blank stare.

the table you'd previously been eating dinner at goes completely silent, with your kid and Choso trapped in their eye contact

you also don't know what to say, so you're also trapped in this silence

your kid's eyes are round, huge, blown wide with fear. a deer caught in headlights.

and choso's expression is perfectly neutral, not a single crease or twitch giving in to any sort of expression.

it's more menacing than a sneer.

if you'd been chewing, you'd be choking by now.

at first, your kid's so quiet that you don't realize they're speaking, until choso's voice comes out, clear and monotone.

"properly, now"

your kid turns to you, their face laced with guilt for being so rude to you.

"i'm sorry, mommy, i didn't mean it"

"better" choose huffs

"it's alright, little one," you assure them kindly. "i forgive you"

the awkwardness lasts for the rest of dinner, but that's just chose being protective and wanting his kid to learn their manners

RYOMEN SUKUNA

sorry but your kid is gone ¯\ (ツ) /¯

he'll get you another one.

NANAMI KENTO

oof. this man is going to deliver a three hour lecture on respecting parents, respecting women, and respecting you specifically.

your kid probably doesn't even remember why they'd said it by the time he's done.

it's the perfect punishment really. your kid walks away learning something and also goes straight to bed because now it's quite late.

he's proud of himself ofc, he's done a good thing. he made a good move as a father and also made sure your kid knew just how much to value and respect you.

you- who's asleep at the table because maybe his lecture was a little too much.

oh well, he thinks as he carries you to bed. surely your kid will tell you all about it tomorrow when they apologize.

#gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #choso x reader #Nanami kento x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk headcanons #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #gojo satoru headcanons #geto suguru headcanons #nanami kento headcanons #sukuna ryomen headcanons #toji fushiguro headcanons

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n30nwrites · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Bow

Good Doggy Masterlist

Beta Editor?? - @letmelickyoureyeballs

Warnings: None

“Ah'm not complaining dathúil.” Soap looks you up and down, he seems to enjoy staring at you. You don’t understand why. It’s just your partially clothed body, you didn’t dislike the staring, but you didn’t love it either. You just didn’t care.

You couldn’t.

“Why are they in my house?” You question, walking behind the couch where Maya sat. They were across from here at the other couch, fully dressed like they were about to go on a mission. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together when you saw Maya.

“Oh son of a-”

“So you’re Chimera?” Price interrupts, saying your code name, and he isn’t better than the youngest member of the task force. “Is that why you moved here? To spy on us?”

“First off-”

“Be nice.” Maya interrupts and you want to remind her that the faster you say this the faster you can get dressed. But you don’t, instead you stare at her.

You continue, “First off, I don’t care about you. I’ve already said that. I don’t have to explain myself to you. Second off, why the hell are we teamed up with you guys?”

“Laswell paid us well.” Maya said, grabbing at her phone, “Had to let KorTac know though.” Maya and you had met at KorTac after your last relationship ended horribly. You had to get away from your old military company, and KorTac seemed desperate to have you once they saw your file. Maya was your partner from the beginning, her code name was Silver.

“I can never have a good vacation.” You groan, “Why the hell did you accept it?”

“We’re trying to find intel to go after Graves.”

You shut up, staring at Maya. Phillip Graves was a name banned from your household, like that one wizard from that one wizard movie. It had been a year since you had seen him, but the memories come rushing back, everything that he did. You nodded your head, accepting that once again you would go back into the field.

“How do you know Graves?” Gaz asks.

“None of your business.”

“You seem to love saying that.” Ghost says, and you decide not to respond. Instead you open up the first box you brought into the house, which was filled with your usual uniform. Grabbing it, you walk yourself into the closest room, which happened to be an unused bedroom, and got ready.

Ghost is the first to stand after you leave, he stalks around the house, gaining information on the two residents. Despite only moving in a few days ago, there seemed to be some decoration items hung up. Pictures of Maya and what Ghost can assume to be her family, he can see her timeline through these pictures. Up until high school, she didn’t have a metal arm and then some time when she met You, she did.

He questions what happens, and knows Maya won’t be as stuck up as you, she’d probably answer. But he didn’t want to ask.

Instead he looked around.

The first bedroom he entered was painted a light purple, it had a multitude of boxes stacked up inside the walk-in closet, which still had its lights on, and a mattress just sitting in the middle of the room. He would guess it was Maya’s, not because of the color but because of the multitude of photos on the wall of her and other people, most of them having you.

The only information he could gather from her bedroom was that she graduated from Palons, the Academy of Alchemists. She seemed to do well from the multitude of medals she had hanging from her diploma.

He left the room, pausing as he heard a door open. Ghost waited a few seconds before continuing his search. Despite being a large man, his footsteps were silent. He opened another door, finding a bedroom with red walls, with a make-shift bed of blankets and pillows. The room was already a mess, boxers were lying on the floor along with a box of knives. Instead of a large walk-in closet like Maya had, there was a smaller one with a dresser inside.

What was on that dresser was what trapped his attention.

It seemed to be a snowglobe, at least the shape of one but no fake snow in sight. Instead, there was a singular figure, standing on ground that was painted to look like what he could guess to be lava. It was kind of childish, he wouldn’t expect it from you, but to be fair, he didn’t know you.

Just knew that you were a huge prick. One that was tied to him.

And Soap, Gaz, and Price. But still, him. Ghost didn’t feel special being tied to you, frankly if you dropped dead on this mission he might just start believing in something again. It’d be an act of fate, unlike meeting you.

He hears a familiar click of taking a handgun off of its safety. His grip tightens on the globe as he puts his hands to the side. “Put it down.” He recognizes your voice immediately. He knows you're angry but somehow it’s dimmed, like a sheet was covering the part in your brain that could make you angry. Instead you just seemed annoyed. You don’t seem to show much emotion besides that. He hates it. He’d rather you get angry at him, yell and hit him. At least it showed that the stuff he was doing bothered you. Enough for you to think about him. “Place it on the dresser, do not drop it.”

He does not understand why you care about this toy but he does as you say. Putting it down and turning around slowly. He’s almost sure you would kill him.

You’re dressed in uniform. A thick black shirt, with a pocket sewn to the left side of it with KorTac’s signature Wolf logo. There are items stuffed in it, but he doesn’t know what, which puts him on edge. The issued KorTac vest, black with the flag of your country of origin on the chest region. Along with thick black jeans that had knife and gun holsters wrapped around your thighs. Knee and elbow pads like the rest of them, and a black balaclava, but unlike him, your eye paint was a deep red.

Similar to dried blood.

Fingerless gloves which is strange but he wouldn’t comment on it, he can only count 3 weapons, two knives and the gun in your hand, obviously you didn’t care about your safety if you thought that would protect you. Your boots are black with gray laces, seeming to have dirt all over the laces yet the boots were relatively clean. You didn’t have your headgear in hand, but you did have a mic connected to your vest.

Your chosen weapon, AKA your sidearm, was a Beretta M9. You put it in one of your holsters, pointing at the exit. And so he leaves.

All he can think about is the two-headed dog figurine inside the snow globe, and how he could’ve sworn it moved.

Good Doggy Taglist @moooonred @th1kc-skulls @callsign-selkie @thehighlordishere @zforgottensniper @tikitsune @spooky-season-is-best-season @bitchyzombienacho @animefan106sposts

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senualothbrok · 5 months ago

Text

Come What May

Summary: On what Gale believes is his last night alive, you cannot give him your body. But there are countless ways to declare love, and infinite ways to express it.

An alternative act 2 romance scene, featuring a Tav who is a cleric of Ilmater. "Come What May" is a song from "Moulin Rouge".

AO3 link

Non-18+. Angst with a happy ending.

Trigger warnings: references to prostitution (Tav's mother), sexual trauma, grief/bereavement, graphic depictions of illness, Gale's suicidal ideation.

A/N: This fic is a response to the anon who requested an alternative act 2 romance scene between Gale and a Tav who wants to save intimacy for after marriage. I feel that I should apologise because I am clearly incapable of writing a straightforwardly sweet/romantic piece which does not involve trauma and angst of some sort. I have no idea why this happened, please forgive me.

Please note the trigger warnings and exercise self-care. It is, however, angst with a happy ending.

I highly recommend listening to "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge during/after you read this.

I deliberated over whether to post this. It feels like my weakest work, and I feel slightly ashamed about it. I'm still not sure if it's good enough to post, but decided to bite the bullet because I wanted to give it to the anon who reached out. I really hope it does bring some comfort and enjoyment to someone out there.

I cannot thank my dear friends @inglorionamy-ammy and @dekariosclan enough for being truly wonderful beta readers and helping me with some major edits on this piece. Thank you and I am forever grateful for your kind hearts and keen minds.

“I’m in love with you.”

There is anguish in Gale’s eyes. His voice trembles with fear and urgency. You feel it all, a sunbeam shooting through the blue-green haze he has conjured around you. For you.

You gaze at him, breathless. Nothing compares, not even the beauty and wonder of his creation. When Gale looks at you, you do not feel dread, that ancient squirming beneath your skin. He is not the lumbering colossus of your nightmares, leaving a trail of whimpering bruises on your mother’s flesh. When he is near, you feel a yearning to draw closer, not away. You had never thought that possible with a man.

In that moment, you are possessed by a wild terror. An agonising thought that he will slip through your fingers, as though he never was. His last night alive.

Your heart surges, and you cannot stop it. You answer without thinking.

“I’m in love with you too.”

Panic seizes you. Your admission is a sacred boundary crossed. A bulwark broken. You have the urge to bolt before all is lost.

But then Gale’s face lifts. It radiates with a smile, and all at once, you are beaming with the knowledge that you are the cause. Fleetingly, you let yourself imagine the miracle of seeing that smile again and again for the rest of your days. It is not a leering grin from which you flee, nor a repulsed grimace from which you hide. Sometimes, in his presence, there is something about solitude that no longer feels like safety, but loss. It bewilders you.

He huffs out a laugh, and you are mesmerised by the curl of his eyelashes, delicate as butterfly wings.

“That’s a relief. It’d be a shame to spend my final hours making an ass of myself.”

There is a flame in his eyes that sets you alight. You cannot look away. You do not want to. Something swollen simmers in the space between you, just as it had that night when the Weave had made you one.

He dips towards you. You are drifting towards him, dizzy from his scent. It is like nothing you have breathed before. There is no trace of sourness, no stale grease. It is sandalwood and leather, scrolls and soap. You are entranced by the plump curve of Gale’s lips, the soft earth of his eyes. In your mind, you see the smooth curve of his shoulders, broad and welcoming. His feather light fingers turning a page, like a sculptor’s touch on setting clay.

The glaring marks on your mother’s neck, withering into wounds. The blood of her scabs, pooling in her navel.

You flinch.

Confusion flits across his features. You shift away.

“I'm sorry,” you manage. “I can't.”

You are winded by his spasm of hurt, a storm of despair, rejection, doubt. Part of you wishes you did not have this gift, this curse of Ilmater - to read others’ pain, to feel others' suffering so deeply it becomes your own. And you know, as you reel from the chains you cannot shed, that you should say no more. But you cannot bear it. You cannot let him suffer from a lie.

“I love you,” you choke. “But I can't.”

His brows steeple. He is silent. The thought that he does not believe you is a torment. You cannot be another loss, another reason for him to believe his life means nothing. To convince himself there is no one who would mourn his death.

The words spill out as though you are clutching, searching.

“I made a vow.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “A vow.” His gaze darkens. “You're promised to another.”

“No.” You jerk your head, frantic. “No. It’s not that…”

He stiffens, as though he is braced for a blow. That he would expect harm from you is devastating.

“I made a promise to Ilmater,” you confess. “I can't be… intimate with anyone. Not like that.”

His eyes widen. You notice that there are flecks of gold in the brown of his irises, flaring with surprise. You fumble for proof, excuses, anything to skirt around the edge of it. The scar inside you that no one but Brother Rogier has seen. Your burden, your wound. Yours and yours alone.

“It keeps me safe.” You sound frenetic. “So that I can heal. I can't be charmed, or harmed by phantasm. Ilmater protects me from–”

It is ridiculous. You feel it as you speak. To suggest that such feeble protections would keep you from the magnitude of his love, when he is certain he will soon be dust and ash. Insulting. You are ashamed.

Disbelief curdles in the tight line of his lips.

“Please. There’s no need for that.” He looks away. “You have a compassionate heart. That much is clear. But there's no need to go to such lengths to spare what remains of my pride.”

You stare at him, bereft. “Gale–”

“I understand perfectly.” His voice is broken glass. “And I would never force my heart on someone who doesn't reciprocate my affections, no matter how pitiful I may appear.”

He turns his back to you. You can no longer see his face. This is the right thing, you tell yourself. The good thing. He will walk away, and you will remain intact. Safe. You will endure.

But a frenzy has come over you. As you watch the sagging of his shoulders, the clenching of his hands, you realise that you do not want it. You do not want this sacrifice, this secret.

You want him.

You have never wanted anything so much.

You lurch forward. He spins around at the desperate questing of your fingers, lacing into his. You fall to your knees, pressing his hand to your heart. Recognition sparks in his eyes as your tadpole brushes against his.

“Please,” you whisper. “Let me show you.”

****

She used to be beautiful, you thought, kneeling there beside her. You stared at the welts marring her olive skin, her scarlet hair flaking to rust. There was a sore on your mother's thigh, weeping with pus, and you looked away when Brother Rogier pressed on it, ashamed at your squeamishness.

You had seen far worse, waiting in dark alleyways and side streets while she heaved, clamped against the wall by some hooded giant, or kneeling as a grunting shadow loomed over her. You had never felt disgust or shock, only vague impatience, as you watched her finish and rearrange her skirts. Coins jangled in her pockets as she took your hand, bounding towards the promise of candlelight in the distance. Later on those nights, she would hold you close in a warm bed, lulling you to sleep with whispered songs. With a full stomach and a formless hope, you ignored the greasy stench of strangers’ sweat which she could never shed.

It angered you, how nauseous you felt, as you listened to the bubbling crackle of your mother's breathing. You were only ten, but you were no longer a child, and you knew her moments were numbered. To feel disgust as she lay there, leaking into a peeling pallet, a guttering flame - it was the greatest betrayal. A sin you could never forgive. When Brother Rogier covered your mother's modesty with his usual gentleness, you started to cry.

You had been suspicious of him at first, stooped and shrouded in his tattered grey robe. You had never met a priest of Ilmater. All you could see was his bald head, so shiny it looked wet, and the backs of his calloused hands, hairy as a beast’s. When he first took hold of your mother after her collapse, you screamed.

But he did not scold or strike you. He spoke to you softly, as an equal, not a child.

“I want nothing from your mother, or from you,” he said. “I have sworn a vow of chastity.”

He had crouched to look you in the eye. It was a dignity you had never been given before, as the ugly runt of a streetwalker. It made you feel like he truly saw you, in a way that no one but your mother did.

“It means I will never take a woman or a man. She is safe with me. And so are you.”

And you were. With him, you felt safe. He was the only other person who would touch her, when the sickness ravaged her body and her mind. He tended to her in the temple with poultices and prayers, giving you food, water and shelter. She was well beyond thanking him by then, all speech and thought swallowed up in decay. Yet when her fire was snuffed out, he was the one who stood with you, cleaning her for burial. He was the one who anointed her so carefully, so reverently, for a return to Ilmater’s embrace.

“Ilmater sees you,” Brother Rogier had said. “He bears your suffering.”

And as you wept into your mother's cold, hard hands, with Brother Rogier steadfast beside you, you thought of every stranger who sucked and thrust your mother's beauty out of her. You thought of their relentless claws in the darkness, and Brother Rogier’s tender fingers in the light. You thought of your life, broken and empty, but for Ilmater's unexpected kindness.

And you made a promise. You promised you would never give your body as your mother had. All that you were, all that you had, you vowed to give to the Crying, Broken God, the one who stood with you and endured.

****

There is a tiny scar near his temple, framed by a dew drop of a mole. You had never noticed them before. As you lie facing him, cocooned in the illusion of the lush grass beneath and the boundless night above, you drink in every pore of his bronze-kissed face, every shadow that lifts as his gaze roams over you. You feel it like a caress, drifting over the patches and blemishes marring your skin, and for the first time in your life, you do not feel the need to hide them.

“Tav.” His voice is so low, you strain to hear it. “I’m so sorry.”

He draws closer. He has seen the gaping hole inside you, and he remains. You can feel his longing to comfort, his desire to heal. It is a familiar urge, your second nature. It would be a gift, if you could accept his reassurance. If you could rest in his embrace. If only.

He senses your hesitation. Abruptly, he pauses, his fingers hovering above yours.

“Is this… alright?” Worry twists his features. “Are you comfortable with–”

“It’s alright.”

He gestures between you. “Because if it makes you feel uncomfortable, I can–”

“It doesn’t.”

He frowns, questioning, fretting.

“I'm sorry.” You look down. “I'm sorry I can't…”

He jolts. Your breath hitches as his fingers find the point of your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

“I love you.” His brow quivers. “There are countless ways to declare love. Infinite ways to express it. The joining of bodies, the pleasures of the flesh…they're but one stitch in a vast tapestry. My love for you goes far deeper, burns far brighter.”

You gaze at him, motionless. When you speak again, your voice is torn.

“I want to. With you. One day, when I’m not...”

You grimace as the images flash through your mind. The weeping scratches on your mother’s breast. The oily sheen on her calloused skin. You try to blink them away.

“When I can, I want to.”

He nods slowly, firmly. He shines, as though there are no more shadows between you. That there never could be.

“It’s different with you.” You try to explain. “When I’m with you, I don’t have to hide. When I’m close to you, I feel…safe.”

You know it is not enough, but it is all you have. You can only give him the truth, no more, no less.

“You’re not like the others,” you say finally. “I… want to be with you. To…touch you.”

You clasp his hand. There is the faintest glow of lavender that trails down the muscles of his neck, a glinting sliver of his chest through the opening of his robe. You look at him with concern. He grimaces slightly. You think you see a trace of embarrassment, but you are not sure.

“I - ah –”

His mouth opens, closes. He struggles for words.

“Is it hurting?” You wince. “We can try that poultice again, I have some in my–”

“I’m alright,” he huffs. “I’m quite alright, Tav.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Not…quite.” He shakes his head. “Not now. It’s–”

He bites his lip. There is a strange silence, as though you have reached a frontier you cannot pass. And yet, the intensity of his gaze draws you, like a thread tethering your soul to his. Your fingers follow its path, hovering over the dark ring at his centre. He tilts his head, and almost imperceptibly, he nods.

His eyelids flutter at your touch. The lines of the orb feel like a scar, a stitch sinking into his skin. There is a coldness to the purple pulse under your fingers. You notice that Gale has stopped breathing. You draw back.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No,” he answers immediately. His lips are parted. You catch the wet glimmer of his tongue. “Not at all.”

He clears his throat. You swallow. For a moment, you cannot look at each other. He runs his hand through his hair, while you fuss at your tunic. A hushed heat falls over you, and as if on cue, you both roll onto your backs, fixing your gazes on the celestial canvas.

It is quiet for a long time. And then your hand returns to his, as if it belongs there. You trace the grooves on his palm, as he caresses the callouses of your knuckles.

“I would wait an eternity for you.” His voice is rough, fractured. “If only I could…but the orb, the fate Mystra demands of me–”

“You don’t deserve this,” you choke.

He scoffs, a burst of anger and disgust. “I was foolish. Selfish. It was unconscionable. I endangered everyone around me–”

You spin back to him. “You don’t deserve this, Gale. Not this. Not her abandonment and punishment. Not any of it.”

He stares at you. There is both a hardening and a softening in him as he wrestles with your words. You understand. You know how it feels to grapple with a burden, haunted by whether you can ever lay it down. Plagued by whether you should.

A tangle of hair falls into your eyes. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches up to tuck it behind your ear. Your skin tingles from the ghost of his touch.

“I could never tire of looking at your face,” he breathes. “Hearing your voice, seeing you smile. Watching you laugh. Being with you, basking in the miracle of your presence.” He closes his eyes, as if committing you to memory. “When the time comes, this is what I’ll picture. Only you.”

The sorrow of his smile floods you. The resolution, the resignation in it. All at once, you are drowning. He gasps, flinching forwards.

“Please.” His thumb draws gentle circles on your cheek, brushing away your falling tears. “My love, please don't cry.”

He speaks with a tortured awe, as though no one has ever wept from his pain.

“I would never want to bring you grief. Only joy. Beauty. Happiness and wonder.”

“Then don't do it.” You try to stifle your sobs. “We can work this out together. You don’t have to die.”

You cup his flickering hand against your skin.

“Any goddess who would ask you to do this isn’t worthy of your love. You're worth more than any mistakes you’ve made. So much more than this cruel forgiveness. You’re… everything.”

Ilmater would never ask this. He would see Gale, his regrets, his triumphs, his goodness and kindness. His love. Ilmater would bear his suffering as his own. He would walk with Gale through the roses and the thorns. You wish you could make him see.

But he does not see it. “Please don't cry,” is all he says, as he wipes away your tears.

***

“What's your happiest memory?”

It feels like a deflection at first. A misguided focus on your sorrow instead of his own. You do not want to back down. You want to convince him that Mystra is wrong, that he deserves to live, that he should endure. But there is a plea in his question, a ragged insistence, and you cannot refuse him.

You close your eyes as you consider.

“My mother loved to sing,” you start. “When she sang, it was like time stood still. Her voice was so beautiful… I can’t describe it, but I remember it. Everything about her was beautiful… until she got sick.”

You feel your mother’s crimson waves, wrapped like a veil around you. The cradle of her arms, so thin and willowy, yet strong as spider silk.

“Just before she got sick, my mother took me to a tavern to see Red Millie. A singer - you won’t have heard of her, but she was a celebrity around our parts. The barkeep took one look at us and tried to throw us out, but we managed to hide away at the back.”

You remember your glee, sneaking with your mother through the gaps in the crowd, shrouded in shadows. There was a whimsy, a spirit within your mother that no amount of degradation and destitution could ever kill. Not until the very end.

Gale’s jaw clenches. “Blind prejudice. Needless cruelty, to deny such simple pleasures to a woman and her child. What I wouldn’t do to give that fool a piece of my mind.”

A tide of tenderness washes over you. You squeeze his hand.

“It wouldn’t have changed anything. But thank you.”

Reluctantly, he eases. His anger moves you in a way you cannot describe. You are reminded of how Brother Rogier chased off the boys that spat and threw stones at you, as though there was nothing that mattered more than your dignity.

“It was incredible, anyway,” you go on. “My first time at a real show. It was the only time I saw my mother’s face light up like that. Red Millie had red hair just like hers, and a voice that could bring warriors to their knees. And that night, she sang this song, a song I’ll never forget.”

It takes you unawares, how clearly you can still hear it. How it echoes inside you like a temple bell.

“Afterwards, my mother looked at me like she’d never done before. She was smiling, and there were tears in her eyes, and she held me so tightly I thought she would never let me go.”

Your chest heaves. She is a bottomless ache. You struggle to find your breath.

“What was the song?” Gale asks softly.

The grasp of his hand stills you. No one but Brother Rogier has ever heard you sing. You have always thought your song fragile, brittle, like thawing ice. It has always been a secret part of yourself, set aside for your mother and Ilmater alone. But when Gale asks, it is a foregone conclusion. Something you give him freely and without reservation.

And so, with your tears mirrored in his eyes, you sing him your mother’s song.

“Suddenly the world seems such a perfect place

Suddenly it moves with such a perfect grace

Suddenly my life doesn't seem such a waste

It all revolves around you

And there's no mountain too high

No river too wide

Sing out this song and I'll be there by your side

Storm clouds may gather

And stars may collide

But I love you

Until the end of time

Come what may

I will love you

Until my dying day”

****

“Come.” He stands suddenly, lithe with determination. “I want to show you something.”

He reaches down to you, and when you take his hand, the world around you dissolves into a whirl of blinding light. You stumble, but with his fingers intertwined in yours, there is no space inside you for trepidation. There is only wonder.

He strides forward. You gasp as a vista of oak, marble, and vellum streams from his free hand. Not for the first time, you are enthralled by Gale in his element, working miracles from the Weave. You marvel at the sculptures and paintings that appear around you, the plush seats and ornate walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books. Within this sanctuary of deep reds and gilded greens, open tomes and scribbled notes gleam in the glow of the fireplace. All you see and feel and smell is Gale.

“This is my home in Waterdeep. The centre of my universe.”

You stand speechless, taking it all in - the gift of Gale’s trust, the purity of his love as he bears his soul to you. With a flourish, Gale leads you towards an intricately carved piano that waits in the corner of the room.

“This is beautiful, Gale.”

You are referring to all of it - Gale's art, his home and haven, Gale himself. But Gale beams down at the piano with a special focus.

“It was my mother's.”

His thumb grazes its elaborate markings. There is such a delicacy in the gesture. An act of worship.

“She gave it to me, when I finally got my act together and moved into my own place. What a day of joy and mourning that was.”

He chuckles, brimming with memories. You wish you could see them all.

“She was a marvellous pianist, back in the day, when her fingers were nimbler. Truly exceptional. She was no wizard, but to hear her play–”

His hands dance, fervent with admiration.

“She played with such passion, such unparalleled mastery, that her music had a magic of its own.”

He gestures to the bench in front of the piano. As you sit, your thigh brushes against his. His fingers trail idly over the keys.

“It was always a treat as a child, to perch here beside her and watch her play. No matter how much of a menace I'd been, how exhausted she was from the endless havoc I wreaked and all the questions about the universe I demanded she answer. No matter how incandescent she was with me for burning this or summoning that…”

He gives a huff of affection.

“She would still invite me to sit beside her and listen. Every time.”

Gale's smile illuminates every part of him. It is a smile like no other, a fixed star in an endless night.

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”

He bobs his head. “Indeed. Formidable, and fearsome, and wonderful. You would like her. And she would adore you.”

There is an instant before he holds your gaze - a flurry of his fingers, a low murmur. And then, the piano bursts into life with a familiar song that shatters your heart into a thousand pieces before restoring them one by one, sealed in gold.

You are shaking. “Gale,” you whisper through tears. “The song–”

He takes your hand and presses it against his cheek. You feel it all - the roughness, the smoothness, the swelling storm, the steady sea. There is so much more you want to tell each other, things that spill over the seams of speech, lapping at the edges of all your empty spaces. In this moment, you do not need it. You simply listen.

****

You are sitting on the balcony. Framed by golden shafts of sunlight, he looks like a vision from your dreams, real and unreal at the same time. You know everything around you is an illusion, a haze of yearning and remembrance. Yet it is truer than anything you have ever seen or felt, greater than all your nightmares, the spectres of the past. It is his world, melting into yours, making you one.

“My favourite spot.”

He pats the velvet seat beneath you. Dust motes shimmer in the rising air.

“Many times, evening turned to night and back to daybreak once more while I sat here, lost in words.”

He looks out into the horizon, the shifting waves and seagulls soaring overhead. You are reminded that he has created all of this from memory. The undulations of the arches before you, the chiselled grooves of the stone floor beneath you. The bustling docks and well worn buildings of Waterdeep in the distance. The empty wine glasses on the table, reflecting the setting sun. You feel the love and longing in his creation. You see the mourning in his frown, the dark determination in the twisting of his mouth. A farewell.

“You'll come back here,” you tell him. “When this is all over. You'll be back.”

He turns back to you. There is a faltering, a crack in his conviction. You hope, with every ardent prayer within you, that it is enough.

Your hand seeks his. “What's your happiest memory?”

A fleeting surprise passes over his features, but there is no hesitation.

“This,” he says. “Now. Being here with you.”

You are taken aback by the force of his sincerity, the gratitude that glistens in his gaze. Of all his accolades, all his many accomplishments and adventures, of all the people he has loved and lain with, this is what he cherishes most. You, bruised and battered as you are. Only you.

“And for you, I’ll wait.” He clasps both of your hands in his. “I'll wait for as long as it takes. A thousand years could pass, and I'd still be here, waiting.” His lips curl. “If you'll still have me, that is.”

You cannot help but laugh at his unexpected pun, and the hint of pride in it. Your cheeks flush with the implication of his smirk. It takes you a beat to register what he has said. When you do, you halt.

“Is that a promise?”

He freezes. Desperately, you search his face.

“It's a promise.” You surge forward. “You're going to wait till the day I can give myself to you completely, mind, body and soul. You're going to live.”

He looks down at his hands, wrapped up in yours. You can feel the roiling inside him, the relentless battle between hope and sacrifice. And when his eyes meet yours again, you are overcome by a love that blazes through everything hidden and broken within you.

There is the ghost of a nod, and his hair skims your neck as you reach for him. When your lips find his, he trembles, his hands questing, coming to rest at the small of your back. You cup his cheeks, and the caress of his tongue against yours is a prayer answered. A vow.

In the warmth of his embrace, you watch the weary sun take its dive into the sea. He holds you close, and as the piano whispers your mother’s song, you let the gentle rhythm of his breaths lull you into sleep.

******************************

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